It is time, ladies and gentlemen, for a fortnightly round-up of the exciting adventures in my life.
First, let's travel back in time (doodle loodle loo, doodle loodle loo)
Tuesday, 1 July.
After having a massive meeting with one of the 5 largest banks in the world (I am not stupid enough to risk their six figure annual donation here), I went home from work at lunchtime.
I had to put on a newly dry cleaned dress (the first time I have ever paid this middle-class right of passage), and help Liam tie the unfathomable and yet utterly dashing windsor knot in his burnished copper silk tie - because at 2pm a taxi came to pick us up.
destination: the palace.
Today was the Queen's Garden Party - an annual event that gathers together the disgustingly rich, the public service sector and a random smattering of boy scouts, marching bands and diplomats to celebrate her majesty's birthday.
She has 3 in London and one in Edinburgh, and I was invited, I suppose, as one of the up and coming of the city. So, we went. I even bought a hat (it was required) with veil - it was totally Casablanca or some shit.
And by the way, it is prohibited to be unaccompanied in the presence of royalty (in case I was to bog off with a prince and cause a scandal I guess), so I brought my trusty british arm candy decked out like a Paul Smith model, and my passport for the ID check at the gate.
Upon arrival, we witnessed the royal procession down ed carpeted stairs to the garden while a brass band played God Save the Queen - which it turns out is the same song as America the Beautiful but with different words. Looks like we even thieved that out of spite. It was very diginified. Then, we ate copious amounts of cake.
Luckily, and also sadly, were dressed infinitely better than everyone else. Turns out rich people stop trying after the first few fetes and the number of people invited for 50 years of postal service or some such thing pulled out whatever semi-formal they wore to wedding 10 years and 15 pounds ago with a JC Penny Hat on top. Some of it was ghastly.
My new official dress code for formal occasions is you cannot show the backs of your knees in royal company. It's distasteful, no matter what your gender or age. (The number of past-middle-aged men whose kilts were hitching up in the back and showing just too much leg was appalling. )
In general, it was adorable and hilarious though, and so very pseudo-posh British. The Queen was in a lemon suit, just like always, and looked at the rabble of hysterical middle aged women who would RUN (when you didn't think it was possible) to stand near her with a steely resignation. It was a sight to behold.
The most bizarre part was when we all took tea (or lemonade or iced coffee), it wasn't the gold foil royal crest on the chocolate petit fours that got me. But the royal tea tent. Princess Anne needed respite I imagine and I think Philip was sneaking a tipple of something into his coffee, so they process to a private marquis. But the tent was glass sided on two sides - so about 700 middle aged loons could stand on the outside peering at them like a zoo observing to each other if Ma'am takes one sugar or two. They even stood on chairs and pushed like they were at the day after thanksgiving sales at Hudsons. Needless to say, we ceceeded from the madness and wandered the rose garden and medieval abbey ruins embedded in the lawn instead.
It was outstanding.
Of course, the version I tell my grandmother will significantly up the ante (more about the royal guard of archers - with real bows and arrows! - less about the tasteless fashion), and ever the royalist she will weep with joy that I've witnessed the upper eschelons at tea.
Next on our agenda: a weekend in Brighton.
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