...I've been to London, to visit the Queen. Last night I went to Buckingham Palace for my appointment with Liz and Phil for drinks and nibblies. At about 5:30, I walked up to the Palace, in my suit, from Victoria Station, not sure where I was supposed to go in...was there a visitors' entrance around the side, or what? Nope, turned out I was just supposed to waltz right through the front gate, so I nonchalantly took my invitation out of my purse, picked my way through the throng of tourists, and handed it to the policemen checking ID at the gate before he ushered me across the red gravel drive into the inner courtyard of the palace. I crunched along with a blonde girl about my age, who was hastily trying to re-pin her shawl over her décolletage, as she had decided her summery dress was showing a little too much cleavage for the Queen. "You come here often?" she asked, and we both laughed. It turned out that she was from Vancouver and had also randomly received her invite to this shindig, so we had a bit of a laugh as we crossed to the front entrance, where men in formal kilts were waiting to check our invitations.
They ushered us up a red carpet into the front entrance of the palace...there were staircases in front of us and on either side, and the walls (which I'd guess were 100 feet high) were hung with giant oil portraits illuminated by chandeliers. I felt immediately out of my depth so I asked a housemaid in a black dress and frilly black apron the way to the ladies' loo, where I hid out at a makeup table (and sent some text messages) while I calmed down, and I listened to the nervous, self-deprecating jokes of all the other ladies who weren’t sure what to expect and were afraid of tripping or saying something rude in front of royalty. My friend from outside was also there so we introduced ourselves and headed up into the first reception room. This is what I'd call the "warm up" room; here you have a few drinks to steady yourself before you head into the next one where the Queen and Prince Philip were waiting to receive their guests. Lisa and I chatted with some nice folks from the Canadian High Commission and then we got in the receiving line (gasp).
The Queen sure looks great for someone who is almost 80. She was wearing a royal blue (haw) cocktail dress with a magnificent gold maple leaf brooch. I handed my reception card to the Master of the Household, a man outfitted in a full tux with tails and white gloves, who murmured my name to the queen, who shook my hand limply as I sort of bobbed and said "Good evening, your Majesty," and felt like an idiot. She didn't reply and actually just kind of smiled blandly and stared right through me. She was wearing navy gloves. I felt sort of stupid and couldn't think of anything to say so I sort of shuffled along to Prince Philip who gave me a good hearty handshake (without gloves) and said, "Welcome, welcome," and expertly steered me to the left and away from the receiving line as I smiled and gulped "Thank you."
And that was that. A butler who I had been joking with on the other side ("Do I HAVE to meet her?" I asked him. "Surrre," he drawled in a broad, decidedly un-posh accent. "Something to write home to Mam about.") greeted me with a glass of water and said, "See, that wasn't so bad was it?" And it wasn't. I'm sure Liz didn't remember me two seconds after I passed through the line. I'm just glad I didn't attempt to curtsy, I would have fallen flat on my face.
Then it was time to go a-mingling. I mostly chatted with other students and High Commission officials (safe territory), and every once in a while, an attaché for one of the minor Royals present (all of them called Major Maxwell Snottingly or Major-General Brigadier Hughie and the like) would come over and “audition” us to chat to their particular Royal…ask us a few questions, decide if we were sufficiently able to hold a conversation and whether we were interesting. I met the Duke of Kent (who hands the prize out at Wimbledon), Prince Edward (who was wearing a mammoth gold pinky ring) and Princess Alexandra in this way, and basically had the same conversation with each, about who I was, where I was from, what I was doing here, did I like England, etc, etc. Princess Alexandra was the most charming and the only VIP I spoke to who actually seemed to listen to what was being said; before I mentioned where in British Columbia I was from she remarked that she had a fondness for Vancouver Island, so we chatted about Victoria.
The time went very fast. I teased one particular waiter with a strong accent who was my age and who couldn’t for the life of him remember the names of what was on his canapé tray (he couldn’t distinguish mozzarella from goat cheese and could never say “ratatouille,”…he said “ratatooley,” “rakatouille,” and “radadewey”, thinking each time that he finally had it right). I told him I wanted to fill out a customer complaint card about him, he just laughed and said I should follow him around and tell people what the canapés were. He also promised to go hunt down Bryan Adams for me, sped off, and Bryan Adams had been standing right behind us the whole time, with his Amazon/supermodel companion in a cut-up-to-here-and-down-to-there white minidress. That was a little embarrassing as I’m sure he heard us.
It was great fun to people watch. There were very few hats in attendance, much to my disappointment, but the few hats present were ridiculously tacky enough (and surprisingly, not worn by old ladies but overzealous younger ones) to provide me with sufficient giggles. There were several Canadian war veterans in attendance, who at 80-plus couldn’t stand for two hours and sat themselves on the silk couches lining the walls of the reception room and had the privilege of speaking with the Queen personally. She and Prince Philip were making the rounds of the room after having received everyone, but of course a lowly student, even from the LSE, wouldn’t get by the audition to speak to them. I did observe that the Queen was much more animated when she was in personal conversation with someone, as I had to pass her on my way out the door. It was amazing just to be able to stand 3 feet away from her for most of the evening, and watch her in action. At about half past seven the place emptied out, as people rushed off to watch the Liverpool-Chelsea game, and at about a quarter to eight (when the reception ended, our invitations firmly stated), I decided to make my way to Victoria station to meet Edy, who had promised to pick me up.
I asked a butler the way out. He pointed to a set of doors at the end of the reception room. “Just pass your Majesty there, and a maid will show you out.” I passed “her Majesty,” who was surrounded by a crowd of smiling people waiting their turn to speak to her. I wondered if I should wave, mouth“I’m outtie” at her and make the international “call me later!” signal, but decided that probably wasn’t as funny as I thought it was and decided against it. I passed through the doors and into another giant hallway, with winding marble staircases, statues in niches in the wall, and the obligatory mammoth oil portraits. Another maid in black showed me to the staircase which took me back to the front door, and I scuttled down the stairs. I was completely alone, and I slowed down to savor it…when was I going to wander the halls of Buckingham Palace alone again? All too soon, I was back in the courtyard, walking towards the gates and St. James’ Park. I turned around and took one last look at the “inner sanctum,” wondering if I would ever get the opportunity to visit again. Edy was waiting on his motorbike just outside the gates, so we jumped off and sped down the Mall towards home.
What really struck me about the whole experience is how awful it must be to be the Queen, or any Royal, for that matter. How taxing for her to have to entertain people like us, strangers, night after night. People who gripe about the Royal Family as moneygrubbers who don’t do anything except live off commoners’ hard earned dollars (and pounds stirling, for that matter) and get their faces put on money should really watch them in action. They deserve every luxury they get, I think, when we require them to engage us in conversation, to make us feel important, to open countless schools, parks and old-age homes, to smilingly accept thousands upon thousands of bouquets from little girls as if it’s the first time they’ve ever received flowers…I don’t know that I’d do it, for all the tea in China. Okay, okay, maybe I would, if it meant I got to marry Prince William or Prince Harry. But to choose the life is different than having it thrust upon you. But seriously, Wills, Harry, if you’re interested, call me, we’ll do lunch...
They ushered us up a red carpet into the front entrance of the palace...there were staircases in front of us and on either side, and the walls (which I'd guess were 100 feet high) were hung with giant oil portraits illuminated by chandeliers. I felt immediately out of my depth so I asked a housemaid in a black dress and frilly black apron the way to the ladies' loo, where I hid out at a makeup table (and sent some text messages) while I calmed down, and I listened to the nervous, self-deprecating jokes of all the other ladies who weren’t sure what to expect and were afraid of tripping or saying something rude in front of royalty. My friend from outside was also there so we introduced ourselves and headed up into the first reception room. This is what I'd call the "warm up" room; here you have a few drinks to steady yourself before you head into the next one where the Queen and Prince Philip were waiting to receive their guests. Lisa and I chatted with some nice folks from the Canadian High Commission and then we got in the receiving line (gasp).
The Queen sure looks great for someone who is almost 80. She was wearing a royal blue (haw) cocktail dress with a magnificent gold maple leaf brooch. I handed my reception card to the Master of the Household, a man outfitted in a full tux with tails and white gloves, who murmured my name to the queen, who shook my hand limply as I sort of bobbed and said "Good evening, your Majesty," and felt like an idiot. She didn't reply and actually just kind of smiled blandly and stared right through me. She was wearing navy gloves. I felt sort of stupid and couldn't think of anything to say so I sort of shuffled along to Prince Philip who gave me a good hearty handshake (without gloves) and said, "Welcome, welcome," and expertly steered me to the left and away from the receiving line as I smiled and gulped "Thank you."
And that was that. A butler who I had been joking with on the other side ("Do I HAVE to meet her?" I asked him. "Surrre," he drawled in a broad, decidedly un-posh accent. "Something to write home to Mam about.") greeted me with a glass of water and said, "See, that wasn't so bad was it?" And it wasn't. I'm sure Liz didn't remember me two seconds after I passed through the line. I'm just glad I didn't attempt to curtsy, I would have fallen flat on my face.
Then it was time to go a-mingling. I mostly chatted with other students and High Commission officials (safe territory), and every once in a while, an attaché for one of the minor Royals present (all of them called Major Maxwell Snottingly or Major-General Brigadier Hughie and the like) would come over and “audition” us to chat to their particular Royal…ask us a few questions, decide if we were sufficiently able to hold a conversation and whether we were interesting. I met the Duke of Kent (who hands the prize out at Wimbledon), Prince Edward (who was wearing a mammoth gold pinky ring) and Princess Alexandra in this way, and basically had the same conversation with each, about who I was, where I was from, what I was doing here, did I like England, etc, etc. Princess Alexandra was the most charming and the only VIP I spoke to who actually seemed to listen to what was being said; before I mentioned where in British Columbia I was from she remarked that she had a fondness for Vancouver Island, so we chatted about Victoria.
The time went very fast. I teased one particular waiter with a strong accent who was my age and who couldn’t for the life of him remember the names of what was on his canapé tray (he couldn’t distinguish mozzarella from goat cheese and could never say “ratatouille,”…he said “ratatooley,” “rakatouille,” and “radadewey”, thinking each time that he finally had it right). I told him I wanted to fill out a customer complaint card about him, he just laughed and said I should follow him around and tell people what the canapés were. He also promised to go hunt down Bryan Adams for me, sped off, and Bryan Adams had been standing right behind us the whole time, with his Amazon/supermodel companion in a cut-up-to-here-and-down-to-there white minidress. That was a little embarrassing as I’m sure he heard us.
It was great fun to people watch. There were very few hats in attendance, much to my disappointment, but the few hats present were ridiculously tacky enough (and surprisingly, not worn by old ladies but overzealous younger ones) to provide me with sufficient giggles. There were several Canadian war veterans in attendance, who at 80-plus couldn’t stand for two hours and sat themselves on the silk couches lining the walls of the reception room and had the privilege of speaking with the Queen personally. She and Prince Philip were making the rounds of the room after having received everyone, but of course a lowly student, even from the LSE, wouldn’t get by the audition to speak to them. I did observe that the Queen was much more animated when she was in personal conversation with someone, as I had to pass her on my way out the door. It was amazing just to be able to stand 3 feet away from her for most of the evening, and watch her in action. At about half past seven the place emptied out, as people rushed off to watch the Liverpool-Chelsea game, and at about a quarter to eight (when the reception ended, our invitations firmly stated), I decided to make my way to Victoria station to meet Edy, who had promised to pick me up.
I asked a butler the way out. He pointed to a set of doors at the end of the reception room. “Just pass your Majesty there, and a maid will show you out.” I passed “her Majesty,” who was surrounded by a crowd of smiling people waiting their turn to speak to her. I wondered if I should wave, mouth“I’m outtie” at her and make the international “call me later!” signal, but decided that probably wasn’t as funny as I thought it was and decided against it. I passed through the doors and into another giant hallway, with winding marble staircases, statues in niches in the wall, and the obligatory mammoth oil portraits. Another maid in black showed me to the staircase which took me back to the front door, and I scuttled down the stairs. I was completely alone, and I slowed down to savor it…when was I going to wander the halls of Buckingham Palace alone again? All too soon, I was back in the courtyard, walking towards the gates and St. James’ Park. I turned around and took one last look at the “inner sanctum,” wondering if I would ever get the opportunity to visit again. Edy was waiting on his motorbike just outside the gates, so we jumped off and sped down the Mall towards home.
What really struck me about the whole experience is how awful it must be to be the Queen, or any Royal, for that matter. How taxing for her to have to entertain people like us, strangers, night after night. People who gripe about the Royal Family as moneygrubbers who don’t do anything except live off commoners’ hard earned dollars (and pounds stirling, for that matter) and get their faces put on money should really watch them in action. They deserve every luxury they get, I think, when we require them to engage us in conversation, to make us feel important, to open countless schools, parks and old-age homes, to smilingly accept thousands upon thousands of bouquets from little girls as if it’s the first time they’ve ever received flowers…I don’t know that I’d do it, for all the tea in China. Okay, okay, maybe I would, if it meant I got to marry Prince William or Prince Harry. But to choose the life is different than having it thrust upon you. But seriously, Wills, Harry, if you’re interested, call me, we’ll do lunch...