‘We live in a cynical world. A cynical world …’ I wish, Tom! I wish that was the strongest word necessary but, in the here and now, that is just being polite! It’s twenty-six years since that classic film was released – Jerry Maguire – and 1996 feels like child’s play …
Upbeat. Eternally upbeat! I have forty-five minutes to write this and, quite honestly, a large glass of wine and ‘Murder She Wrote’ sounds much more appealing but this is on my ‘To Do’ list and, remember, I have OCD tendencies! It helps that I have company, I suppose – the two pigeons who live in the garden, that is. As I sit at my magnificent desk overlooking said garden – honestly, the best ‘Must Have’ purchase in forever, I shall never tire of it – one of them is sitting on the roof below watching me. Easy life. One thing, though, they never shut up!
Today has been one of those days when one just seems to fiddle and achieve nothing of note. So frustrating. I did set myself the target of writing one thousand words, minimum, per day – of my future bestseller, that is – but I have failed miserably. The thing is, I love doing it and, moreover, I am approaching the juicy stuff but procrastination is a curse. It has been a strange week, though. The aftermath. No-one could deny the intensity of the past two weeks, swept along by a sea of emotion; nostalgia. With the Queen, finally, having been laid to rest, however, there is an inertia of sorts. A constant for seven decades, she is gone and, with her, that whole wartime ethos. Stoic, selfless, it is unsettling, at the very least. A reminder, too, not only of those we have lost, personally, but, also, of our own mortality. Rainbows fade and disappear. Nothing is forever but forever …
My astute reader may have ascertained a distinct lack of direction, here. I have no notes to speak of and no plan. Unheard of! Not that I haven’t been glued to Dan Wootton and GBNews, nightly, between 8 and 10. Piers Morgan? Put it this way, if he claims ‘Dear Meghan’ or ‘Woke Up!’ as his own at some point in the future, I shall sue! He has let me down in more ways than one, recently, but more of that later. I did try to phone TalkTV , yesterday, to express my displeasure only narrowly to miss an exchange with Ian Collins (?) live on the radio! Awkward, as I haven’t a clue who he is, nor the topic for discussion. When the lovely girl immediately asked me who I was, where I was phoning from and my question for Ian, in hindsight, I should have taken the gift of an opportunity which presented itself and questioned Piers’ lack of communication – let alone acknowledgement – live on air. Regrets …
Anyway, as I said, I am au fait with the country/world’s continuing implosion at the hands of the egomaniacs and the woke. Hang on, silly me, they’re pretty much one and the same – grievance driven power seekers. The Queen is dead, long live the King … who, remember – allegedly – has his own bed transported everywhere, never mind his own toilet paper! Are we sunk?
Back to required observation … Twelve days of wall-to-wall television, of course I have comment. A shock, undoubtedly (the death of a 96-year-old), the pomp and pageant which ensued, the meticulous planning which was in place, was incredible; utterly incredible. Years of rehearsals, who knew? Too much? Overkill? Absolutely not. All should have been acutely aware of the history unfolding before our very eyes. Seventy years our Queen, we will never see her like again. Moreover, the line of the throne, for the foreseeable future, is one of Kings. So, a moment in time of such magnitude deserving of, at once, sadness but, also, celebration in acknowledgement of an unforgettable life.
From a family perspective, I thought it was torturous! To have the eyes of the world’s media upon them from the moment the alarm was raised about the Queen’s health? Unthinkable. The shots of William, Andrew, Edward and Sophie through the car window arriving at Balmoral on that bleak Thursday evening, knowingly, too late. Worse still, Harry, on his own … Mind you, it has, since, been reported that he wasted so much time arguing the right for Meghan to accompany him that he missed the chance to fly with the others.
Charles? Distraught, exhausted with the weight of the world, literally, now on his shoulders. How he coped! Maligning a leaking pen, the least of his worries. Meantime, his sister never left her mother’s side on her final journey. Stoic and deserving of far more praise than she received.
A family divided and, already in torment, to have the world’s media focused throughout, eager to glean any sign of rancour between the brothers – or, any prospect of a thaw – must have been well- nigh intolerable. I felt for them all – bar one. Deserving of none, she feigned a heart throughout, and as for these ridiculous long black gloves? The one thing Meghan will never afford is class. Poor Sophie Wessex. Left in a car with the venomous ‘Duchess’, twice, is it any wonder her gaze never left the window?
Gosh, I have found rather a lot to write after all. Who’d have thought? I must, however, mention the funeral in Westminster Abbey, itself, and some of the ‘dignitaries’ who attended. Cherie Blair? On the subject of class, time has afforded her no added decorum. A pregnant hippopotamus could walk with more grace! The same could be said of Gordon Brown’s wife, Sarah. Just awful! Liz Truss? Not much better but her attire demanded more weight, as it were. A coat or a jacket, perhaps, she was wearing a rather flimsy dress which looked worthy of Wallis … The little things, mistaken by many, to be of little importance. Therein lies the rub. Remembering how Martha used make us walk out of Prayers with our hymn books on our heads, I shall be eternally grateful. Listening to the wonderful voices of the presenters of a bygone era, accompanying the old footage, one was reminded, too, of the Queen’s English, spoken as it should be. Soon those voices will be lost forever amidst the sloth of standards hellbent on the lowest common denominator. For to acknowledge anything else would be to appease the privileged; those born with silver spoon in their mouths. God forbid! Yes, the passing of the Queen marks the passing of a generation; the generation which, bravely – and selflessly – fought and won two world wars securing our freedom; a generation who were a different breed. Possessing of manners, morals and, above all, respect, there was no victim culture, for pride was paramount and there was no thought of being owed, just because. May the monarchy continue to thrive. The alternative – a classless society – is too horrific to contemplate.
‘The search for Nirvana, like the search for Utopia or the end of history, or the classless society, is ultimately a futile and dangerous one. It involves, if it does not necessitate, the sleep of reason.’
This is Trish, signing off.