I suppose that I had more or less taken leave of my senses as I set out for Bermondsey on Saturday afternoon to queue for the Queen’s lying-in-state.
The decision was a mixture of bravado, instinct and careful plotting. Hoping to evade various bans and restrictions, I had turned my old waxed jacket into an item of luggage, its huge pockets stuffed with books, in case of boredom, and weighed down with a phone bank and a wriggling mass of wires, because my mobile would certainly go flat on me during the long night.
Before setting off, I wolfed a bacon cheeseburger in the (correct) belief that I would then not feel hungry for hours. Thirst would be a different problem.
Why was I doing this? As a monarchist, I am cool to the point of chilliness, with no special love for the actual Windsor family. I have never owned a Coronation mug.
It is more or less pure reason, combined with the joyful duty of defeating republicans in argument, which causes me to rally to Crown and Sceptre. But I was damned if I was going to miss this and so spend the rest of my life wishing I had been there.
