I have a confession to make.
I am a closet royalist. Closet, because as a Guardian reading leftie, loving all things queenie isn’t very cool.
I’m pretty sure it’s the kitsch factor. It started with Charles and Diana’s wedding. I was the very impressionable age of nine, and she was so pretty. To make it more exciting, she lived just around the corner from us and we’d see paparazzi on the way to school. I cut pictures out of the newspaper and stuck them in my scrapbook, which I sadly no longer have. We went to watch the wedding procession on the Mall, waving our union jack flags on a beautiful sunny day – as I remember it – before returning home to watch it all again on TV whilst eating a red, white and blue meal. I think my mother used food colouring on the pasta.
I’m not saying that if it came to laying down my life for them I’d be first in the queue, but I like them. Well not all of them, but some. I love the pageantry and pomp, I love the palaces, I love the Cecil Beaton photographs.
Last year we were in Borneo for the Royal Wedding. I was properly sad to be missing it. My brother sent me a care parcel with bunting and and a Kate and Wills shopping bag. The bag was gifted to a rather bemused local in return for her excellent cooking and the bunting was strung up around our guest house, much to the disgust of the other, German, residents. Luckily the people who worked there were rather more enthusiastic and we watched the whole thing on BBC World, proudly telling anyone who’d listen that that’s where we live.
This year I am staying put. No one’s going to budge me on the Jubilee weekend. We’re having a street party and everything. I will be able to watch TV, and not just the BBC, but the channels which talk about the hats. I’ll be able to buy the commemorative Fairy Liquid and Hello! special edition. I’ve already spent an inordinate amount of money on shortbread in M&S for the pretty tins, and I’m sure prawn cocktail crisps taste better out of a bag with the Queen on the front.
And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to drool over the Emma Bridgewater catalogue…