Get a Haircut and Get a Job

On the news tonight there was a report about some bunch of protesters getting all upset because the police moved them on.  It seems to be happening a lot at the moment, something about a new tunnel.  Anyway, what annoys me most about these bludgers, apart from their dirty hair, is the indignant way they respond to a perfectly acceptable use of force. 

In May 1968, when student protests in Paris sparked a wave of civil unrest across France, the celebrated author Miss Nancy Mitford kept a diary of the revolution that nearly was.  She was particularly scathing about the protesters:

There was a great deal of wailing about their treatment by the police.  I despise them for it.  They were out for a rough-up and they got it.  Nobody was killed and now they are behaving like babies who have been slapped.  It’s not very dignified.

These wise words describe my feelings perfectly: I despise them for it. 

Travel Diary - The Emperor's Birthday 2011

Tokyo 

23 December Heisei 23

I awoke early this morning and went down stairs for breakfast.  During my weeks in China I got used to the huge buffet breakfasts almost everywhere I stayed.  I loved to start off with the spring rolls, dumplings, and stir fried chicken and vegetables.  Then it would be a large plate of sausages, bacon, scrambled eggs and pancakes with lashings of maple syrup.  But things are very different in Tokyo.  Yesterday I had the western breakfast, which was an odd selection of sliced ham, a boiled egg and a piece of white toast about four centimetres thick.  Today I had the Japanese breakfast.  It was a bowl of miso soup, a small bowl of rice, a piece of smoked fish, and an egg.  At first I thought it was a boiled egg, but it turned out to be just a normal raw, fresh egg.  Not sure how it should be eaten, I left if for a while and waited to see what the Japanese guests did.  But the Japanese couple near me had opted for the Western breakfast.  So I took a punt and cracked the egg into my soup.  It was quite pleasant, but nothing remarkable.  The fish was nice, if a little boney.  It was accompanied by some small plumbs which were incredibly sour, so I left them and finished the rice.  By then a Japanese man was at the table next to me and he cracked his egg over the rice.  Oh well, at least I know for tomorrow morning.  

Just before eight I headed off for the Imperial Palace.  The Imperial Family’s first appearance was scheduled for 10:20 and I wanted to make sure I got there early enough to get a good spot.  The hotel is across the road from the Imperial Palace’s Hanzomon Gate.  There was little sign of anything out of the ordinary, though the police booth at the gate had a flag out.  As I was waiting at the lights, two policemen came running past, only to turn around and run back to the gate.  The other police seemed a bit fidgety; so maybe the running back and forth was just a way to break the tension?  I discovered tonight, after I watched the news, that I probably just missed the arrival of the Crown Prince and Crown Princess, Prince and Princess Akishino, and Prince and Princess Hitachi.  

It took about fifteen minutes to walk to the plaza in front of the Imperial Palace.  There were several queues forming at designated points around the perimeter of the plaza, and a security check point in the centre.  I chose one to join and settled in for the wait.  It was then that I realised how very cold it had become.  The blue sky had disappeared as clouds came rolling in.  Luckily I had brought my beanie, gloves and scarf with me as I ended up needing them all.  Some of the other queues had smatterings of European faces, but mine was entirely Japanese.  There were a lot of elderly ladies, but also many young couples and families.  Everyone was very polite, and, apart from occasional chatter, it was fairly quiet.  If it had been China the locals would have stared at me, laughed, said hello and taken photos.  But not the Japanese.  They studiously refused to show any interest in the large man with a big bushy beard who was towering over them.  I had already noticed that the Japanese do not really like to speak English, even though they have learnt it at school and seem to understand what is said.  So with their politeness, and my shyness, our part of the queue remained very quiet.  

Eventually we were on the move.  The various queues were brought into the next holding pen, and then ushered through the security check.  I had to show my passport and my backpack was thoroughly searched by a young policewoman.  I forgot that I still had half a roll of toilet paper in my bag (a vital necessity in China).  The policewoman pulled it out, realised what it was, and quickly put it back.  She then examined my camera to make sure it really was a camera.  Finally, with only the hint of a smile, she pointed me in the direction of the next queue.  This one was numbered, and a sense of expectation now spread through the crowd as we got closer to the Imperial Palace.  One of the queues was lead by a couple of dozen people holding tall long banners.  Some had chrysanthemums or the Hinomaru, while others had greetings in Chinese characters.  Paper Japanese flags, the Nisshōki, were handed out, but not to foreigners.  All eyes turned to the Nakamon Inner Gate at the end of the Seimon Ishibashi Main Entrance Stone Bridge.

At 10 am on the dot the great wooden gates opened, and the numbered queues began to move in a very orderly fashion.  It was wonderful to look back out over the plaza from the Seimon Ishibashi to see the prospect usually seen only be the Emperor and Empress (and the Imperial Guard sentry on duty).  Once through the Nakamon, it was a steep incline up to the right and then over the Seimon Tetsubashi Main Entrance Iron Bridge.  This is the bridge that was originally called the Nisshōki Double Bridge,  because of its two level design.  The wooden Nisshōki was replaced by an iron bridge in 1888 (which in turn was rebuilt 1964).   From certain angles the iron bridge appears to hover above the stone bridge, so the name Nisshōki stuck, now referring to both the Seimon Tetsubashi and the Seimon Ishibashi.  From hidden speakers came the sound of Imperial Court Music.  Though quiet unusual, the music is strangely compelling with the mournful strains from the Shō, a traditional reed instrument, and the occasional drum beats. 

The visitors making their way into the Imperial Palace

The different queues began to merge into one at the entrance to the Kyūden Tōtei Plaza in front of the Chōwaden Reception Hall. I wondered if there would be a rush for the front.  But nobody made a break, and the crowd, moving only a tiny little bit faster, remained orderly as it converged beneath the glassed in balcony of the Chōwaden Reception Hall.  I was in a good spot, about 20 metres from the front.  It also helped that I was taller than most of the Japanese, so my view was excellent.  There was a great sense of anticipation and subdued excitement, but still everyone remained fairly quiet.  There were certainly no chants of “we want the Emperor.”  There was an announcement, part of which, I think, was to tell everyone which members of the Imperial Family would soon be seen (I made out Tennō, Kōgō, Kōtaishi  and Akishino ).  There was a footman standing like a statue on the balcony.  I checked my camera settings with him, and then enjoyed the final moments of anticipation.

At 10:15 silence descended on the crowd as all eyes focused on the balcony, and the last few minutes ticked by.  Then, at precisely 10:20, the sliding door behind the wide screen at the rear of the balcony opened.  A courtier could be seen, making a deep bow, as he moved off to the right to make way for the Emperor.  His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of Japan then came slowly out from behind the screen, followed serenely by Her Imperial Majesty the Empress.  Immediately thousands of paper Japanese flags were raised and waved with great vigour.  I was surprised by the sound made by all these waving paper flags; like extremely loud mosquitoes buzzing all around us.  This sound was then overwhelmed by the great cries of Tennō Heika, Banzai!  Ten Thousand Years to His Majesty the Emperor!  With each banzai everyone raised their arms, almost like a mini Mexican wave.   It was extremely moving, and I tried to savour every moment.  The Emperor and Empress were joined by the Crown Prince and Crown Princess, Prince and Princess Akishino, Princess Mako, and finally Prince and Princess Hitachi.  They all moved to their assigned spot on the balcony and sedately waved to the crowd.  It was wonderful to see the entire family so closely.  

The Crown Princess and Crown Prince, the Emperor and Empress, Prince and Princess Akishino and Princess Mako

The roars of Banzai continued for a couple of minutes, and then the Emperor prepared to speak.  As he did the Banzais and arm salutes stopped, and the flags went silent.  I’m not sure what the Emperor said, but he spoke slowly and clearly.  Until then I had not taken any photos.  I learnt long ago not to worry too much about photos.  It tends to result in images remembered as if through a view finder, or a small video display.  It is better to enjoy the moment; listen to the sounds, watch the crowds and soak up all the atmosphere of the moment.  While the Emperor spoke I did take a few photos of all the Imperial Family, but pretty quickly put my camera down again as the Emperor came to the end of his speech.  

The Emperor thanks his visitors for their birthday felicitations

As soon as the Emperor stopped, the flags came straight back up and, if possible, were waved with even greater enthusiasm.  The roars of Banzai came back with greater gusto, and I even made out a few cries of Kōgō Heika Bonzai! Ten Thousand Years to Her Majesty the Empress!  The Emperor looked genuinely happy and with a big smile acknowledge the cries of loyalty.  The Empress looked a bit tired, and her concern for the Emperor could be seen in the way she kept an eye on him.  The Empress and the princesses all held a fan in one hand, and gloves in the other, and stood in the same formal manner; it gave a glimpse of the formality of the Imperial Court.  I was particularly interested to observe the Crown Princess who is the subject of so much speculation.  She was smiling and waving, but there was, perhaps, a certain tension in her expression.  The Crown Prince, however, was relaxed and smiled broadly. .  Princess Akishino was the most relaxed princess; when the time comes she will make a fine Empress.  For Prince and Princess Akishino’s daughter Princess Mako, it was her first time on the balcony as an adult member of the Imperial Family.  I thought she looked quite nervous, if not actually frightened!  I’m sure she will relax over the coming years as she undertakes more public duties.  Prince and Princess Hitachi seemed somewhat reserved, with Prince Hitachi showing the sort of awkwardness I remember seeing in footage of his late father, the Emperor Showa.

Princess Akishino and Princess Mako

The Emperor looked at the Empress, she smiled at him and took a step back as he prepared to lead the family back into the Chōwaden Reception Hall.  With a slow stately reserve, all the members of the family fell into line behind the Emperor and Empress.  After a couple of final waves, and more roars of Banzai, the Emperor and Empress disappeared from sight behind the screen.  With perfect choreography all the princes and princesses were soon gone as well.   The flags came down again, but the long tall banners came back up to lead everyone away from the Kyūden Tōtei Plaza.  Now there was a lot of animated chatter and big smiles.  Everyone had thoroughly enjoyed their opportunity to greet the Emperor and see the Imperial Family.   The happy crowd made its way past the Imperial Household Agency and back out onto the plaza through the Sakashitamon Gate.  Straight away the sights and sounds of busy Tokyo replaced the peacefulness of the Imperial Palace.  I made my way towards Tokyo Station, and along the way several vans passed by with loud speakers blaring out messages or playing jaunty military music.  They were flying the Nisshōki national flag and the Kyokujitsu-ki rising sun naval ensign.  On the streets other groups were handing out pamphlets; I was given one in English about the Japanese atrocities in Korea and China during the Great Pacific War.  

The purpose of my trip this year was to be in Tokyo to see the Emperor on his birthday.  I have travelled over 5,000 km by train and boat since arriving in China about five weeks ago.  I’ve been to Guangzhou, Xian, Lhasa, Shigatsu, Chomolungma (Mt Everest) North Base Camp, Beijing, Shanghai, Osaka, Kumomoto, and Kyoto.  Was it worth it just to see the Emperor? Absolutely.  He is the 125th Emperor of Japan; the direct descendant of Jimmu, who became, according to traditional dates, Japan’s first emperor on 11 February 660 BC (11 February is today celebrated as Japan’s National Foundation Day).  An unbroken line of Emperors descended from Amaterasu Ōmikami, the Sun Goddess; an “Imperial Throne coeval with heaven and earth.”

Old Melbourne Gaol - Cell 17

When I was at school in the late '70s and early '80s, the most popular school excursion was a trip to the old State Museum of Victoria, no doubt because of its free entry.  I liked the old museum, mainly because of the old fashioned grandeur of some of the VIctorian exhibition rooms.  There and was also something reassuring about seeing the same displays year after year.  Another popular destination was Polywoodside.  This old sailing ship always left me unimpressed; it made for a very dull excursion.  Finally there was the Old Melbourne Gaol.  We went there year after year and, like the museum, it was comfortingly the same every time.  In those days, a few of the cells housed a dummy dressed up in prison uniform.  They were not very life like, and the effect was stilted and not very interesting.  However, one of the dummies stood out from all the rest.  Every time we visited the gaol, my best friend Neil and I would head straight to the cell that housed this particular dummy.  We would then have a hearty laugh because this dummy was the spitting image of Rowena Wallace.  It was a male dummy, but he really did bear a striking resemblance to the Logie award actress; star of the Australian small screen.

The next place we visited was cell 17.  It was always locked, and nothing could be seen through the peep hole.  But there was something compelling about it; a feeling of melancholy and isolation seemed to take over as we stood outside the door.  Maybe its location at the end of the row had something to do with the sense of forsakenness, but cells at the other ends did not have the atmosphere of despair we experienced outside cell 17.  We would speculate over what might have happened in there to leave such a lasting presence.  Oddly enough, we always thought the presence was a woman, even though we were told that section of the gaol had always been for men only.  After several years, the school excursions came to an end.  Memories of the spooky cell at Old Melbourne Gaol faded away.  But I never forgot them.  They remained part of the nostalgia of that period, along with Sunny Boys, Twisties and Choo-Choo Bars.   

Recently, for my birthday, I felt like doing something a bit different.  It was on a Saturday, so I looked about to see what might make an interesting change.  Several years ago on a visit to England, I went on a very enjoyable Ghost Tour in York, run by the extremely gruesome Mr Andy Dextrous (if you go to York, you must do this tour).  I am partial to a good ghost story, so I went in search of something similar.  When I saw the advertisement for the Old Melbourne Gaol Hangman's Night Tour, I booked right away.  The night  of my birthday was suitably cold, dark and gloomy.  I went with my friend Darren, and on the way into the city I told him about my school memories of the Rowena Wallace dummy and the creepy cell.  I was curious to know if I would be able to pick it l after all these years.

The Hangman's tour was great fun.  It started in the dark, with a candle flickering on the floor, throwing ghostly shadows up to the high roof and across the three levels of cells.  The hangman played his part with gusto and brought to life the often terrible stories of life in the prison.  There were some genuinely spooky moments along the way, particularly when we were all shut in a cell and the Hangman extinguished his candle.  As we made our way to the gallows, I nudged Darren and pointed towards an end cell.  I knew straight away that it was the one, and the memories of sadness Neil and I felt all those years ago came back.  The door was open and In passing I finally got to glimpse inside.  The tour ended at the gallows with a description of how the condemned spent their last night, and an explanation of the skill required by the hangman for a successful execution.  If the rope was too short the condemned might die slowly from strangulation, rather than the desired snap of the spinal cord; too long and the witnesses might have been shocked by an unexpected decapitation.  At the end of the tour a few lights came on, and the Hangman told us we could have a look around.

We headed straight for the cell (I also kept a half hearted eye out for the Rowena Wallace dummy, but I did not expect such an old fashioned museum display would have survived to the more interactive days of modern exhibits).  It was a real treat to finally enter the cell.  It was fairly dark inside, with only a gloomy light coming in through the low, narrow doorway.  It was, like most of the cells, empty and nothing distinguished it from the others.  But right away I felt a sense of sadness.  Darren left almost immediately, saying he felt cold and unwelcome.  I stayed for a while, pondering how an empty room could possibly contain a feeling; it  really did seem too silly for words.   But there it was: I had a real sense of foreboding, melancholy and resentment.  Maybe I was just imagining it all, creating it in my own mind.  That is, of course, quite possible.  But I still could not get past the feeling that what I sensed came from the cell itself, and not from my own emotions.  It was all very strange. 

As I left the cell, a young couple came in.  The woman asked me if I had seen the ghost.  

"What ghost?" I asked her in surprise.  

"The one in this cell" she said "we asked the lady who took our tickets if there were any ghost.  She said the gaol is certainly haunted, and that a lot of unexplained activity came from cell 17.  I saw you point to the cell when we passed it earlier, and thought you must have asked as well."

I told her about my experiences of this cell from over thirty years ago.  It was all a bit spooky, and the young woman became nervous.  Her boyfriend said he wanted to shut the door and stay there in the dark, but she would not have a bar of that.   I left them to it.  Later, on the way out, we passed the cell again.  There were a few people waiting outside the now closed door.  They were all quite tense and one of them said a young man was in there, on a dare, to stay in the dark for at least five minutes.  As we passed through the gift shop, I spotted the hangman at the counter.  I asked him what had happened in cell 17.  He said they do not know, but confirmed there is no doubt something in cell 17.  Visitors regularly report an unwelcoming presence, and experience sensations of loneliness, despair and anger.  The hangman said the odd thing about it is that the presence seems to be that of a woman, and she does not like men.  Some men have heard a female voice telling them to "get out" and felt pushes from unseen hands.  I told him my story and he was not at all surprised.

He told me there have been attempts to identify the woman, but nothing has been found in the available archives.  There is not even any proof  that the cell was ever used to house women.  Paranormal investigations have also failed to provide any information that might help identify the female presence. 

Who was she?  We will probably never know.  But, unlike the long gone Rowena Wallace dummy, she will most likely still be there the next time I visit the Old Melbourne Gaol, even if it is not for another thirty years.  For her time has no meaning, she is always there, waiting.  Her sorrow, loneliness, and resentment exist in a frozen, unchanging moment of despair; forever contained within the walls of the forsaken, empty cell number 17.

Travel Diary - The Imperial Palace Beijing 2011

In 2011 I was back in Beijing for my third visit, this time in winter.  As always for my trips to this city, the skies where clear and blue.  The commercialisation and development of Beijing continues unabated, as hutons make way for even more western style shopping malls.  It is sad to see what has happened to this delightful city.  Yet there is still something appealing about Beijing and its residents, despite all the changes not necessarily for the better.  Here is what I had to say after my third visit to the Imperial Palace.

Beijing Saturday 10 December 2011

Today was an odd day.  It was a search for the China, the Peking, I liked so much in 1993.  But I am afraid it is gone.  Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself.  This morning I got the metro to Qianmen and went in search of the entry to the Chairman Mao Memorial Hall.  The queue was not very long, and it was moving at a nice steady pace.  Security was very tight (no bags, and definitely no cameras).  The hall is quite impressive, and it looks something like the National Library in Canberra, the Nation's Capital.  On the way to the front door several people bought a single yellow flower, for three yuan, to place at the feet of a large statue of a seated Chairman Mao in the outer chamber.  The space in front of the statue was nearly full of flowers, so no doubt they eventually make their way back to the little shop later in the day.  A nice little earner that must be. As we approached the inner chamber, most people became subdued, though there were a couple of men still chatting away loudly (just try and keep a bunch of Chinese quiet).  A highly decorated military man hissed at the remaining talkers, and must have told them to take off their hats.  They uncovered their heads, and shut their mouths quick smart.  

Then it was into the inner chamber.  It was very '70s in decor; wood panelling, hidden lighting, and potted plants.  The chairman was under glass, on a slight incline, wearing a green Mao suit.  A Chinese flag covered him from the chest down.  He looked like a wax figure, even his hair looked fake.  But I suppose there is no reason to doubt that it really is he.  So this is the man responsible for the death, suffering and misery of millions of people.  But to what end?  Across the road from him are now a KFC, and malls full of crappy shops.  Mao has become nothing more than a curious relic; a pop culture image on a tacky watch selling for 120 yuan.  If he had a proper grave, I suppose he would be spinning in it.  There was no chance to linger, and members of the Peoples' Liberation Army kept everyone moving at a steady pace.  Then it out the other side back into the late morning sun.  It was an interesting visit, and as an exercise in the macabre it was certainly a worthwhile.  In a way it was also the closest I have come to capturing the nostalgia of that 1993 visit.  

After I picked up my bag and camera I went over the road to have lunch at KFC.  I must admit that it was the best KFC I have had in years.  The chicken was crispy, the chips where just perfect, and the Pepsi Max cold and sparkling.  Thus fortified, I made my way up to the Meridian Gate for my third visit to the Imperial Palace.  The crowds were huge and completely lacking in any historical respect.  But it was nice to be back again.  It was cold, but sunny and clear (I am yet to experience anything but blue skies in Beijing).  I wondered about slowly for a couple of hours.  There was nothing new since 2007; all the same exhibitions, the same displays.  The face lift for the Olympic Games has not been maintained, and some parts were looking a bit tired and run down.

I went to my favourite spot in the Imperial Garden.  In 1993 there were old men sitting around chatting, with their little singing birds in cages nearby.   There were also the smiling ladies selling the hot snacks from their little hot plates.  They are long gone, and Imperial Garden has lost a great deal of its charm.  It now feels somehow sterile; overrun my dozens of loud Chinese tourists.  I had afternoon tea at a new cafe.  It was a complete rip-off; 65 yuan for a small heated up bowl of Gōngbǎo Jīdīng, a huge scoop of stodgy rice, and a dry, tasteless muffin.  I planned to stay until dusk and closing time, and hopefully experience something of the peace and quiet that must descend on the palace as the crowds depart.  One new thing I did see was the Hall of Mental Cultivation where, on 12 February 1912, the Dowager Empress Longyu signed the Imperial Edict that granted China a republican government (well, I had seen it before, but did not realise its importance).  The Articles of Favourable Treatment meant that the Great Qing Emperor Xuantong would keep his title and his palace, but the empire was gone.  

After a quick visit to the Hall of Supreme Harmony I went in search of somewhere sunny to sit as the temperature began to drop in the late afternoon.  Then I saw the most disgusting example of just how bad things are at the Imperial Palace.  A shop has opened called "Fly Over the Forbidden City".  Yes, you too can dress up as the Emperor or Empress and be filmed pretending to fly.  This is then superimposed over aerial footage of the Imperial Palace, the Summer Palace and the Great Wall.  The Emperor flying over his palace; it was all too depressing for words.  A girl in the shop saw me staring incredulously at this abomination and smiled and called me in.  With a great effort I smiled sadly in return, and then beat a hasty retreat.  I found a nice spot in the sun, and sat down for a rest.  It started off nice and quiet, but far too soon my peace was disturbed.  A pack of photographers came rushing past, following a woman wearing the most ridiculously tight pair of leather trousers I have ever seen.  Maybe she was some sort of minor celebrity, but to me she just looked like a slut.  

So this is what this proud old palace has been reduced to: a theme park; a backdrop against which masses of newly prosperous Chinese, ignorant of their own history, can have their photo taken doing star jumps.  A palace now the stomping ground for trampy D grade minor-celebrities trying to drum up some publicity.   Over 2000 years of imperial dynastic history reduced to a tacky DVD of an emperor flying over their palace.  Bad taste wins the day.  This is what millions of people died for.  But how can the Chinese Communist Party maintain its dictatorial control when it has so obviously sold out to consumer greed?  What socialist ideology is left?  Precious little as far as I can see.  However, the people seem content with the situation, so it looks like the men in power, hiding behind the fiction of the CCP, will hold onto power for the foreseeable future.  Well, at least until the Mandate of Heaven is bestowed upon a suitable new Emperor and the dynastic cycle is reestablished. 

Feeling disillusioned, I gave up on my plan to stay until dusk, and left the palace.  It was with a feeling of melancholy that I looked back towards the Hall of Supreme Harmony. Will I ever come back to Beijing again?  Maybe one day, after all I still want to do the train trip from Beijing to Urumqi.

Travel Diary - The Imperial Palace Beijing 2007

In 2007 I returned to Beijing and found a very different city to the one I remembered from 1993.  With the Olympic Games coming a lot of change was in the air.  Here is what I wrote after my second visit to the Imperial Palace.

Beijing Wednesday 16 May 2007

The train trip from Shanghai last night was uneventful, I even managed to sleep really well.  We glided into Beijing Railway Station just before 8am.  I was surprised at how pleased I felt to be back after 14 years.  The station looked familiar, and I got ready to run the gauntlet of taxi drivers as I made my way out onto the plaza.  But, surprisingly, unlike my arrival in 1993, I was left completely alone.  The hotel is just across the road and I found it without any difficulty.  My room was not ready, so I dropped off my bag and headed out for a walk.  I did not plan on being gone for long, but it was over five hours before I made my way back here.  

I started off in the general direction of the Imperial Palace, but with no particular plan in mind I often went down lonely looking streets just to see what was there.  I passed some intriguing looking hutons; I'd love to go in for a proper look.  There were not many people to begin with, but as I got closer to the main east-west avenue the signs of life increased dramatically.  The big avenue looked different to how I remembered it.  It wasn't just all the new buildings, it was their height that made it look so very different.  Not exactly a change for the better I must say.  I overshot Tiananmen Square and found myself at the north-east corner of the moat that surrounds the Imperial Palace.  I did not visit the Jingshan Park in 1993 so I went in for a look, and also, I hoped, something to eat: it was about 9:00 am and I was starving.  What a wonderful place it was.  People were dancing, singing, exercising and even praying in the morning sun.  I bought some breakfast; a big bowl of some sort of savoury stew (the only things I could identify were mushrooms and tofu).  It certainly hit the spot, and all for just 3 yuan (about 50 cents).  I sat in in the shade, ate my stew, and watched a group of ladies, all in matching outfits, dancing and singing.  Then I explored the park, its hills and pavilions, and nice views over the Imperial Palace, and and the city further south.  An interesting sight was the tree from which the last Ming Emperor committed suicide.  I left my hat there and when I came back about half an our later it was still sitting next to the hanging tree.  There was no smog at all, just clear blue skies.  My second visit to Beijing, and, again, the weather is perfect.

I came out of the park opposite the north gate of the Imperial Palace, the Gate of Divine Prowess, which leads to the Gate of Obedience and Purity.  I had not planned on visiting the Imperial Palace until tomorrow, but as I was there, I thought I might as well go in.  Starting from the north, I came straight to the Imperial Garden, one of my favourite spots from 1993.  But the elderly men sitting and chatting, and the ladies selling snacks, who I remember from 1993 were nowhere to be seen.  The private quarters of the Great Qing Emperor, however, were just as eery as I remembered them.  Elsewhere there were a lot of renovations under way, and many parts of the palace were closed.  The Hall of Supreme Harmony was completely shrouded in tarpaulins, and all over the place there were big signs proclaiming "Beijing Welcomes the 2008 Olympic Games".  There were large groups of Chinese and foreign tourists, so many that I avoided them if possible.  After muscling my way to the front of the Palace of Heavenly Purity to take a couple of photos, I needed to get away from these noisy people.  I left the main north-south axis, and went in search of the Hall of Mental Cultivation.  On the way I spotted a door slightly ajar.  I gave it a little shove, and it opened.  I could not see anyone nearby, so I thought I would explore further.  I found myself in a courtyard in front of a small pavilion.  The windows were all papered over, but a small opening revealed a completely empty room with white washed walls and a dirt floor.  I wonder who lived here, or what its purpose was?  It was amazingly quiet in the courtyard.  I sat in the shade for about half an hour and enjoyed the silence.  After this peaceful interlude, I decided to head back to the hotel, as I was now feeling very tired. 

I came out through the Meridian Gate and and made my way back towards Beijing Railway Station, but I soon got lost.  I bought a map at a kiosk, but that did not help much as I did not know where I was.  Tomorrow I am going to get a compass!  I spotted a metro station and went down to get a train back to Beijing Station.  What an old fashioned system compared to Shanghai and Hong Kong.  The tickets are little slips of paper, like raffle tickets, with a picture of a train on it.  It cost one yuan for the ticket at the window, which I immediately handed over to a sleepy looking woman at the gate.  They will have to do better next year for the Olympics.  The trains, however, were clean, frequent and the system was easy to navigate, there only being a couple of lines.  It turned out I was just around the corner from my hotel when I got lost.  

At the palace I bought a copy of the autobiography of the Great Qing Emperor Xuantong (known as Aisin-Gioro Puyi in the People's Republic of China).  It will be interesting to learn more about his so-called "re-education" from Emperor to loyal supporter of the Chinese Communist Party.  But for now, I'm exhausted, and its time for an afternoon nap.

Travel Diary - The Imperial Palace Beijing 1993

Twenty years ago this week I visited China for the first time.  I found my diary from that trip and here is what I wrote about my visit to the Imperial Palace.

Beijing Saturday 26 June 1993 

Well after three days in Beijing, today was time for my long anticipated visit to the Imperial Palace. At breakfast this morning I took one of the tourist maps that are used as placemats, and planned my route to the palace. I wanted to stop by the Catholic Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, Xuānwǔmén Tiānzhǔtáng. It is the oldest Catholic church in Beijing, and the first foundation was established there in 1605 by the Italian Jesuit Matteo Ricci. Unfortunately it turned out the map was not to scale, and the walk to the cathedral took much longer than I expected. The current cathedral, built in 1904, was certainly very colourful. There were streamers, ribbons and coloured lights, and rather tacky pictures. I did not see any other people, but there was a sign in English advertising mass on the hour tomorrow. 

I did not spend very long there and soon set off for the Imperial Palace. The Great Hall of the People, in all its monumentalist grandeur, was, in a strange way, very attractive. Tiananmen Square is very big, but not really very impressive beyond the space it creates. Then it was into the palace, except it wasn't. There was this fair ground kind of situation, all very noisy and tacky. It turns out the famous gate with the big picture of Chairman Mao is the entrance to the Imperial City, not the Imperial Palace. After a bit of confusion over this unexpected situation, I finally arrived at the real entrance to the Imperial Palace; the Meridian Gate. The entrance fee was 45 yuan, and I also hired the audio-tour, which was unexpectedly very good. 

What a wonderful place it is. It is such a mixture; with the grand, impressive ceremonial halls in contrast to the small, homely courtyard palaces. I walked around for about four hours, enjoying every minute. It is so sad that such rich cultural, religious and spiritual traditions are now dead. A grand palace like this should be a living symbol of over two thousand years of dynastic rule in China, with the Son of Heaven at its centre; not a museum. The Hall of Supreme Harmony is spectacular, what a wonderful ceremonial complex. It must have been magnificent when in use. I also really liked the Palace of Heavenly Purity Aren't the names beautiful? The Bower of Well-nourished Harmony; the Belvedere of Pleasant Sounds; Palace of Tranquil Longevity; the Pavilion of Myriad Springtimes; the Palace of Gathered Elegance; the Hall of Mental Cultivation etc. etc. 

Yet it did not feel entirely like a museum. The private quarters of the palace's last inhabitants were almost spookily atmospheric. You could not enter them, but you could look in through the windows. The rooms looked dusty and run down, almost like nothing much has changed since the Great Qing Emperor and his court departed in 1924. I was particularly taken by the bedrooms of the ladies of the court. The beds are built into the wall, with rich silk hangings to either side. They looks very cosy, particularly as it must get very cold here in winter. Even in the private living quarters, there were still formal places for the Emperor to sit in state. I doesn't look as if he was every really off duty or in private. 

Eventually I arrived at the Imperial Garden, in the northern end of the palace. It was not really a garden as such, just on open area with some trees, and surrounded by smaller pavilions and halls. But it was still very pretty in its own way. One of the pavilions was where Mr Reginald Johnson and the Xuantong Emperor had their classes. It was all locked up, but I would have loved to have gone inside for a look. In the garden there were several elderly gentlemen just sitting around smoking, chatting and laughing. A couple of them had birds in cages, and their pretty singing added to the relaxed friendly atmosphere. There were also a couple of ladies selling hot snacks from carts with hot plates. I bought a hot bun that turned out to be very sweet, and a bottle of the ubiquitous Pepsi. Finally, after several hours on my feet, I sat down in the early afternoon sun for a bit of a rest. It was, in some ways, the highlight of the day. 

It was soon time to head back here to the hotel, and I had a long way to walk. I departed through the northern Gate of Divine Might and set off. I suppose I could have got a taxi, or tackled the public transport system, but I did not feel confident enough to try this out. So walk I did. I was very tired, but it was still a great walk. It seemed that at nearly every corner there were huge stalls selling a green leafy vegetable that I think was what we call Chinese broccoli. There were also masses of watermelons. The shop keepers smiled and yelled out hello. I passed a street barber who called out to me and held up his scissors. I took off my hat to reveal my lack of hair and he roared with laughter. 

Finally, many hours after setting out, I got back and almost collapsed into my arm chair. Out the window I can see the Temple of Heaven, that is tomorrow's destination, it will have to be pretty impressive to top the wonderful Imperial Palace. I would most certainly love to go back again one day.

Royal Wedding in Sweden

Last week in Stockholm's Royal Palace Chapel, Her Royal Highness Princess Madeleine of Sweden, Duchess of Hälsingland and Gästrikland, married Mr Christopher O'Neil.  The princess is the youngest daughter of King Carl XVI Gustaf and Queen Silvia of Sweden, and I had long cherished hopes that she would become our future Queen by marrying Prince William of Wales.  I think the Queen should have got on the blower to King Carl XVI Gustaf soon after Princess Madeleine's birth to kick off negotiations for the marriage treaty.  But arranged royal marriages are no longer in vogue, and the perfect opportunity for a brilliant match was missed.  

Considering some of the unorthodox marriages contracted by various members of the younger generation of European royal houses, that of Princess Madeleine to Mr O'Neil is, at least, quite uncontroversial (unlike her brother Prince Carl Philip's relationship with unsuitable former "glamour model" Miss Sofia Hellqvist).  Princess Madeleine was briefly engaged to a Swedish chap who turned out to be a bit of a cad.  To ease her broken heart, the young princess went to live in New York, where she met Mr O'Neil.  Last Saturday night was the big night.  I settled down to watch the broadcast which began at 11 pm local time.  It was a pleasant enough ceremony, but there were a couple moments I cringed.  The scene was set by some of the guests.  There were a couple of very buxom women squeezed into dresses far too small for them.  Their décolletage was pushed up and out like a platter of giant jellies.  Not suitable for a church to my way of thinking.  The camera also showed, several times, a young man from the Swedish navy.  He looked very smart in his uniform, but he was chewing gum.  Every time the camera settled on him, he looked like a cow chewing her cud.  At one point he had his mouth open and was pushing the gum out on the tip of his tongue.  Then there was the groom's family. Mr O'Neil's mother looked like a walking display of the dangers of too much botox.  She did not seem able to move her face at all and for the entire ceremony had exactly the same stunned expression her face.   Sitting quite prominently with the O'Neil party was Mr Valentino Garavani, who designed the bride's frock.  The dress maker in a position of pride of place? No, I don't think so.  

Luckily some of the royal guest raised the tone and gave a sense of gravitas to a religious ceremony.  Princess Takamado of Japan was very stylish and dignified.  Crown Princess Victoria looked every centimetre the future Queen, and Prince Daniel is quite the dashing consort.  As the exception that proves the rule, the King's sister, Princess Birgitta of Sweden, Princess of Hohenzollern, showed yet again the dangers of the tanning salon, and mutton as lamb.  But in a royal lady this can be seen as a wonderful eccentricity, particularly if she is delightful company.

The ceremony itself was an odd mixture of Swedish and English.  Are vows valid if the bride and groom make them in different languages?  The Lutheran liturgy was pretty boring, but I suppose that is what happens when there is no nuptial mass.  Unfortunately the music was not uniform in its excellence and appropriateness. As at the wedding of the Crown Princessely couple, a solo performance of what sounded like a sentimental love ballad took us perilously close to bogan territory.  It was performed by Marie Fredriksson, the peroxide blonde half of Roxette.  The next solo performance, however, took us across the border and deep into bogan suburbia.  

Many years ago I used spend my weekends employed as an usher at the "religious centre" of a major university.  The main chapel of this multi-faith establishment could be hired for a wedding by anybody who so wished.  The university supplied an usher to open the doors, turn on the lights, and, most importantly, stop people throwing confetti after the ceremony.  I would stand there, wearing my academic gown, and pounce at the first sign of any surreptitious little bits of coloured paper.  It was easy money, particularly if there were three or four weddings a weekend.  Religious marriages where very much in the minority, and I got to see a huge range of civil celebrants in action.  Without doubt my favourite was an elderly woman, one of the first civl celebrants ever registered in Australia.  She had a huge personality, and must have been quite something in her day.  However by the time I knew her, civil celebrants were two-a-penny.  She was not happy with this influx of new blood, and  resented the loss of her near monopoly on local weddings.  She also seemed to enjoy a drop or two of mother's ruin to get her through the day.  Well maybe a bit more than a drop or two.  I'm sure she was completely smashed at least two weddings.  But her clients loved her, so no harm done.  The worst celebrant was a washed up bit-part actor who just like the sound of his own voice.  I cringed when I saw his name on the list, and tended to stay outside the chapel while he subjected the poor couple to his tacky idea of a ceremony.

Then there was the music.  Sometimes I had to walk out mid marriage because the music was so bad I was afraid I would start to laugh.  There was a pianist who often played at weddings called Joe.  He had a wicked sense of humour, and we used to have a hearty laugh after a particularly awful wedding.  I would never look in his direction during a ceremony as we would set each other off into a burst of guilty giggles.  Joe had a list of the songs he most hated to play at a wedding, his bogan greatest hits.  That brings us back to Princess Madeleine and Mr O'Neil.   The second solo performer sang the Roberta Flack classic First time ever I saw your face.  This used to be quite popular at bogan weddings, although many a bogan will assume it was called Misty from the motion picture Play misty for me.  It is a fine song in its own right, but a bit sick making when used at a wedding.  Joe had his own version of the lyrics, which was very rude.  To this day I can't help laughing when I hear it.  So as the princess and her banker listened all doe eyed and so in love, I was trying not to sing along with the rude lyrics I still remember from all those years ago.  But it was no good, I could not help it, and I was pleased when the performance was at an end.  I suppose it could have been worse.  Number one on Joe's list was a song he eventually refused to play, the ever so tasteful Three times a lady.  Finally, another bogan element of the Swedish wedding was the epistle from 1 Corinthians 13:4.  You know the one "love is patient, love is kind…..", although bogans just think it is a poem.  I have heard it at so many weddings now that for me it has become a bit of a cliche.  

So that was my experience of the latest royal wedding.  By about 2:30 am I had nodded off a couple of times.  So as the newlyweds boarded their boat for Drottningholm, I made my way to bed.  I must admit I was quite surprised at the extent of my negative feelings about this wedding.  Who would have thought a couple of sentimental tunes could have such an impact on my overall experience?  Maybe I was just feeling overly tired and a bit fractious. Or maybe I am just disappointed that the beautiful Princess Madeleine is not going to be our future Queen, and my hopes of a brilliant royal match where nothing but a flight of fancy.  After all, nobody likes it when reality impinges on a long held, enjoyable but ultimately hopeless, dream. 

Dog Park Politics - The Husky Clique

Why do people insist on keeping huskies as pets?  They are working dogs and should only ever be found pulling a sled somewhere within the Arctic Circle.  But no, let's keep them as a domestic pet because they look so noble (though I cannot see the attraction myself).  They are pack animals and need to quickly sort out their place in the sled team. They jockey for position, standing over other dogs, chest out, evil wolf eyes issuing a challenge.  They can be very intimidating and difficult to handle (which may explain why so many find themselves abandoned at the local pound). Then there is the problem of their owners.  What a pretentious clique of dog snobs they are.  Even worse are the ones who adopted their Husky from the pound.  They have the added attitude of self-righteous smugness; convinced of their moral superiority for saving a poor abandoned dog from a lethal injection. 

My bulldog Bert and I have an ambivalent relationship with Huskies.  It all goes back a couple of years to the first time we met Jeannie and Max at the local fenced dog park.  Bert was enjoying himself, playing with his friend Humphrey (an English Bull Terrier with one blue eye, the other brown).  Jeannie and Max came in, and Jeannie proceeded to ignore what Max was doing, and walked around talking on her mobile.  Max came over and stood over Bert, clearly challenging him.  Bert did not like this one little bit.  He may be a small dog, but he has a big personality.  He is completely fearless and does not take kindly to large dogs assuming his size makes him a pushover (he has taken on Rottweilers, Rhodesian Ridgebacks, Great Danes, and Irish Wolfhounds).  So almost immediately it was on for young and old.  I dragged Bert off, and with one leg tried to keep Max at bay.  During all this Jeannie did absolutely nothing.  Over the following months I witnessed similar incidents time and time again.  Soon Max had a very poor reputation, and Jeannie's was even worse.  People got sick of her complete inability, and unwillingness, to control Max and started to ask her to do something about Max's poor behaviour.  But as far as Jeannie was concerned Max did not have a problem, he was just misunderstood.  

It all came to a head one Saturday morning when Max started to mess with a small Fox Terrier called Cody.  Cody's owner is an elderly lady called Dawn.  She is one tough old bird.  I like to imagine that in her day she was the local SP bookie and queen of the black market.  She told Jeannie to control Max and stop him tormenting Cody.  Jeannie snapped back and called Dawn a f***** bitch.  Well Dawn would have none of that and told Jeannie a few home truths (Dawn told me all this a few minutes later, sitting next to me, puffing away on her fag, and smacking me on the arm to emphasise every point).  Then, for some reason, Jeannie decided to walk past us as she led the park.  Max came straight at Bert and tried to attack him.  I had now had enough.  With a good dose of sarcasm I asked her why she didn't even try to control her dog.  She initially looked surprised, but then got stuck into me.  How dare I complain, I was just one of those Saturday people, while she and Max come everyday.  For some reason, It also offended her that I tend to sit on the same seat every week.  She was quite irrational, and revealed a very nasty side to her personality.  

I reported her behaviour to a dog trainer who, it turned out, had worked with both Bert and Max.  She told me that several people had complained to her about Max.  As far as I was concerned that was the end of it.  I avoided Max when possible, and completely ignored Jeannie.  I witnessed a couple more of her outbursts, and heard stories of others.  People started calling her, among other things, Max's psycho owner. Then they seemed to disappear and I did not see them again for a couple of months.

But then one Saturday morning Bert and I arrived at the park early.  I saw Max nearby, but thought it best to ignore him. We came through the gate and I bent down to let Bert off his lead.  Suddenly Max was right there, doing his very best to get in Bert's face.  I grabbed Bert and started to move off, but we had hardly moved when Jeannie appeared and started to yell at me "you arsehole".  She then turned to a complete stranger and said "this is Bert's dad, he's an arsehole".  I asked her why she was being so horrible.  She denied the charge, but I pointed out the obvious evidence to the contrary: she had just told a complete stranger I was an arsehole.   "Everyone thinks you're mad" she said.  "I'd prefer people think I'm mad, rather than vile, horrible, and rude" replied I.  She was completely out of control, and making an absolute fool of herself.  Eventually I took a very ungentlemanly line and told her to piss off.  This time I reported her directly to the local council.

The city council could not do anything about Jeannie's behaviour, that would be a matter for the police.  Nor could they really do anything about Max without a park ranger seeing him in action.  But during my discussion with the council officer, my former complaint was mentioned.  It turned out that the dog trainer had informed the council of my original encounter with Jeannie and Max.  The council did not have my contact details and could not follow it up.  But there had been other complaints which they did investigate.  Then I realised what had happened.  Someone else had complained about Max, and Jeannie thought it was I.  That explained her nasty reaction to me.  What a loser.

Since then I hardly ever saw Jeannie and Max.  I still heard stories about her appalling behaviour, and she remained very unpopular with many of the regulars at the dog park.  However, she did seem to realise that she must take control of Max.  A few months ago I noticed she was using treats and other training techniques to keep Max in check.  She even called out to him once to "leave Bert alone" as she distracted him away with a treat.   But this morning things took a turn for the worse.

Bert and I went to the park as usual, and there were already four other Huskies there.  What was going on; is today some sort of Husky holiday?  They were trying to sort out the pecking order of all the other dogs in the park, and generally making a pest of themselves.  But their owners where just oohing and aahing over their precious darlings.  Then Jeannie arrived, this time with three Huskies.  She opened the gate and let all three in, but then went back to her car for a couple of minutes, and completely ignored what these three dogs where up to.  So with seven Huskies now at large, I fetched Bert, put his lead on, and sat down to wait for the Husky invasion to withdraw.  But Jeannie seemed to feel emboldened now that she was surrounded by her kind of dog, and her kind of people.  Max came over and aggressively stood over Bert.  Jeannie did nothing.  I told Max to clear off, and tried pushing him away from me and Bert.  Eventually the miserable old crone called off her unlikable wolf… sorry, Husky

A few minutes later Jeannie went back to her car.  She left Max and the other two Huskies unattended on the other side of the park.  I thought it was completely irresponsible of her to leave three Huskies alone and unsupervised in the park, particularly as one has a track record of aggressive behaviour.  Eventually Jeannie came back into the park, but not soon enough to see and pick up the big pooh Max did while she was gone.

That was enough for me, so I decided to take Bert to another park.  As we left I glanced over at Jeannie.  She was watching us, a smug smirk on her face.  It was as if she felt that, surrounded by seven Huskies, she had won.  I just laughed at her pathetic behaviour.  I also laughed as I remembered what a friend recently said of Jeannie: she is looking more and more like Max every day.  It is true.  Her hair is the same colour, and pretty much the same length.  Also, as Max got older, he filled out and became quite solid.  So has Jeannie.  But at least Max does not try squeezing himself into lycra: it's not a good look.  

The other park was a great success by the way.  It is unfenced, so Bert is not likely to get hassled by any other Huskies, let alone Max: Husky owners are far too responsible to take the risk of their precious darling doing a bolt back into the wild.  Even better, with any luck, I will never see the horrible Jeannie ever again.

The Coronation of Her Majesty the Queen

For the first time since 1953, the full BBC eight hour black and white broadcast of the Queen's coronation was shown again to celebrate the 60th anniversary of this historic day.  I have watched the colour motion picture "A Queen is Crowned" dozens of times over the years.  It is certainly an amazing film, but I always wanted to see more.  So here was my big chance.  But, of course, the BBC blocks viewers from outside of the United Kingdom watching their programs online.  Never mind, I rented access to a UK IP address, and within minutes got access to BBC videos.  The problem with this solution is that the speed of streaming might slow down, and need regular buffering. But, never mind, it was better than nothing.  Good old Canada also showed the broadcast online, and they do not block other countries.  But they showed it several hours after the BBC, and I did not want to stay up until at least 4:30 am.  So the BBC it was.

Soon after 7 pm I connected to my UK server and went to the BBC.  I was reminded that I still needed a TV licence to watch programs online. Yes, of course, I will take care of that next time I am in London.  In 1953 at 10:15 am Miss Sylvia Peters introduced the live television broadcast of the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II.  Sixty years later, Miss Peters was back to do it again.  This time she recalled her memories of that morning, working at BBC TV in its early days at Alexandra Palace (Al Pal as she called it).  You could still sense her excitement at what was a remarkable day in the history of television.  Then, glancing to her left, she said that it was nearly 10:15, the exact moment the live broadcast began.  Suddenly Miss Peters was sixty years younger, wearing pearls and a lovely frock.  In a voice that sounded similar to another young lady we would soon see, Miss Peters outlined the day's schedule, and then it was over to the outside broadcast units.  

From the beginning it was very different to the sort of coverage of royal occasions we see now.  We did not see Miss Peters again, or any of the other presenters.  It looked like there were cameras at only a handful of locations along the route from Buckingham Palace to Westminster Abbey, so there were large parts of the processional route that would not be seen.  The black and white film had been cleaned and restored and the quality was pretty good.  There were occasional shadows, and the microphones sometimes picked up voices in the background.  But, over all, it was perfectly watchable, and perhaps even enhanced the sense that this was from another age.  

Before long the Coach of State, drawn by eight horses, emerged from the inner courtyard of Buckingham Palace, and we got our first glimpse of the Queen.  How young she was!  For most of her subjects the world over, the Queen has always been there.  You forget, that she was only 25 at her accession, and 27 at the coronation.  The Duke of Edinburgh was 32.  We saw the coach for a few minutes as it headed up the Mall, then it is out of site of the cameras.  But instead of being a drawback, this makes the broadcast even more interesting.  Today cameras would follow the Queen for the whole length of the procession.  But because this did not happen in 1953, we got to see all sorts of other things happening along the processional route and at Westminster Abbey.  That is what I loved about this wonderful trip to the past.  

An interesting difference between 1953 and 2013 is the crowds.  There were unbelievably huge in 1953, yet in a way quite drab.  There were no silly Union Flag hats, painted faces, plastic tiaras etc.etc.  But more noticeable was the complete lack of flags.  Occasionally one could be spotted amongst the throng of people in their brown and grey macs, but for the most part waving a handkerchief was the order of the day.  Back at Westminster Abbey we got to see the arrival of Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, and Princess Margaret.  Very soon the State of Coach again came into view for the cameras outside the Annexe.  The Queen and the Duke entered the Annex and then began the Grand Procession.  Indeed it was very grand.  The commentary, provided by Mr Richard Dimbleby, was very informative and interesting.  I was particularly finally pleased to see the Queen's Champion,  Lieutenant-Colonel John Dymoke.  The Champion dates back about 900 years, and originally it was his role to ride into the Coronation Banquet at Westminster Hall, in full armour, and take on any one who dared to challenge the King's right to the throne.  The Coronation Banquet did not take place in 1831 at King William IV's scaled down coronation, and has not been revived since.  Now, the King or Queen's Champion carries the Standard of England in the Grand Procession.  

Finally the Queen arrived at the coronation theatre and the liturgy began.  It was quite long and made up of various parts.  During the anointing, the canopy, carried by four Knights of the Garter, shielded the Queen from view.  The camera focused on a tapestry above the altar, and Mr Dimbleby explained that we would hear the words of the anointing, but would not see anything until it was over.  Now anointed, the Queen could be crowned.  It was interesting to see just how involved the peers where at this point, various Dukes, Marquises, Earls, Viscounts and Barons carrying out duties assigned to them by long tradition.  It made me wonder how this could be justified in a future coronation now that hereditary peers are a spent force.  We will have to wait and see. The great moment came and the heavy crown was placed on the Queen's head.  At that point all the peers put on their coronets, as did the peeresses.  The sight of all the ladies raised arms, in long white gloves, and their glittering diamonds was quite magnificent, and the yells of "God Save the Queen" very heart felt and moving.  

After the acts of homage the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh proceeded to the altar to take part in a communion service.  Now I have never seen a full Anglican communion service, so it was quite interesting to watch what it involved.  Some parts were very similar to the modern Roman Rite that would come to the Catholic Church over a decade later.  I was very surprised when the consecration (if that is what Anglicans call it?) took place and the cameras again withdrew to the tapestry.  This time Mr Dimbleby said that we would not even hear the words spoken, and invited everyone to join in silent prayer for our Queen.  The camera stayed fixed on the tapestry for several minutes.  When vision was restored, the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh were on their way to the Chapel of St Edward the Confessor.  Once she was out of sight, an amazing transformation took place in the coronation theatre.  Out of nowhere, like trails of ants heading for a picnic basket, came an army of page boys criss-crossing as they headed toward their assigned peer.  Very soon it looked like Bourke Street in peak hour, as more peers and clergy began to line up for the grand recession.  Slowly, and almost imperceptibly, a sense of order began to emerge from the chaos.   Very soon the various parts of the recession were ready, and the first sections began to make their way down to the North Door.  Then appeared the Queen.  She was now wearing the Imperial State Crown and her crimson parliamentary train was replaced by her purple coronation train.

Then came a moment I had been waiting for.  About 20 years ago I saw a documentary on the BBC's coverage of various royal occasions.  It included an interview with a little man who was squeezed into a tiny space with his camera for the coronation.  He was under strict instructions not to take any close ups of the Queen.  But as the Queen came past St Edward's Chair and her Throne, the little man kept his camera focused on her face.  There was a red light in his little box that would flash if he was focussing too closely on the Queen's face.  But he decided that the image was just too beautiful not to show.  As the second verse of God Save the Queen got under way, the Queen got closer and closer, and for the first, and only time during the ceremony, we had a wonderfully close view of the Queen.  Her jewels glistened in the light, and she appeared very calm and composed.  It was a magical moment.  

Several years ago, when I was studying theology at a Melbourne Catholic college, we had an end of year mass on the feast of Christ the King.  During the 1990s it was not unusual for some ever-so-modern priests to use this feast to preach against the idea of modern kingship, and by inference the Australian crown.  At this particular mass, a Sister of Mercy was invited to give a reflection (she was actually incorrectly described as the guest preacher).  She told of how she and a friend had recently seen the motion picture "A Queen is Crowned" in London.  She spoke of the bejewelled peeresses, and the Queen invested with all the regalia.  Sister concluded that because of all their diamonds and obvious wealth, Jesus would not have been anywhere near Westminster Abbey that day.  I would have walked out, but as a member of the student association I was due to say a few words at the end of the mass, so I had to sit through her ridiculous ramblings.  She finished by congratulating our college on its ecumenical credentials and tolerance of differing points of view.  I huffed loudly and mutter under my breath "except when it comes to an Anglican coronation liturgy."  I am sure for the Queen, and probably for many of her subjects, the ceremony that day was of an intense spiritual nature that should not be underestimated.  Especially not by an ignorant sister taking cheap shots at the expense of a Queen who fully understood the true religious significance of her vows, anointing, and crowning.

With the coronation over, there was a short delay as the procession back to Buckingham Palace got ready to start.  While the Queen had a brief rest in the annexe, we were treated to all sorts of departures from Westminster Abbey.  The first to depart where the colonial rulers, including the the very impressive looking Sultan and Sultana of Zanzibar, and various Malay Sultans, including the 80 year old Sultan of Johor and his 38 year old Romanian wife.  Then came the wonderful Queen Salote Tupoa of Tonga.  This Queen from the Pacific Ocean has become something of a legend over the years since the coronation, and after finally seeing her in all her glory I can now understand why.  She was simply magnificent.  Her smile seemed infectious, and her energetic waving to everybody brought forth a wonderful response from the crowds.  The rain was coming down heavily, and later in the procession the other carriages of the colonial rulers all had their tops put up.  But not the carriage containing the Queen of Tonga and the Sultan of Kelantan.  Both were absolutely drenched, but nothing could dampen the Queen's enthusiasm, or the incredible reception she continued to receive from the immense crowds.  I have often wondered how the Sultan felt about this, but he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself as well.

Then came the prime ministers of the Commonwealth and their wives, with our own Mr Menzies looking very dignified, while Mrs Menzies looked extraordinarily happy.  The last prime minister was Sir Winston Churchill, and I must admit there was something a bit sad about this echo from the past.  Winston Churchill's military career began during the reign of the Queen's great-great-grandmother, Queen Victoria, in 1894.  He was 79 and his political life was nearing its end.  Although the last war had ended only eight years earlier, there was something almost discordant about this old man making his famous V for Victory sign from the window of the carriage, a carriage that would later break down and have to leave the procession.  The whole day had been focussed on the young Queen, and had a sense of looking forward to the future with hope and optimism.  Old Sir Winston and his wartime greeting seemed to drag us back to the past, a past ultimately triumphant, but at a cost of such immense death and suffering.  For a moment the gloominess of the weather broke into the otherwise joyous atmosphere of the day.  But only for a moment.  For then came another blast from the past, but this one of such delightful eccentricity that you could only but smile: it was the brief glimpse of Princess Marie Louise.

Born Princess Marie Louise of Schleswig-Holstein in 1872, daughter of Princess Helena, Queen Victoria's third daughter and her husband Prince Christian of Schleswig-Holstein.  She was briefly married to Prince Aribert of Anhalt.  But the marriage was not successful, most likely because Prince Aribert was not exactly the marrying kind of chap.  Marie Louse returned to Great Britain and spent the next 56 years as a relatively active, if somewhat obscure, member of the Royal Family.  During the Great War, King George V decided that all German titles must be abandoned.  Poor old Princess Marie Louise, and her sister Princess Helena Victoria, suddenly found themselves as princesses of…. well, princesses of nothing and nowhere.  With their German titles gone, they officially became Princess Marie Louise and Princess Helena Victoria; nothing more, nothing less.

The procession of the troops through London was, perhaps, the least successful part of the broadcast, which was a pity because it must have been very spectacular.  This is where colour was needed, without it the different uniforms merged into one.  Then when the sun came out, the bayonets flashed brightly, but the quality of the images seemed to suffer in the contrast between light and shade, and the overall effect was not attractive.  There was also a glaring omission in the commentary; the Australian contingent was not even mentioned.  Once the full parade had passed the cameras at the Queen Victoria Memorial took over and we got to see the entire parade all over again.  At least this time the Australian contingent got a mention.

So after over six hours since leaving Buckingham Palace, the anointed and crowned Queen returned home.  There was the delightful image of the young Duke of Cornwall and Princess Anne pointing excitedly out of a palace window as the Coach of State went through the palace gates.  At this point the "real time" coverage was abandoned, and we skipped about forty minutes and went straight to the palace balcony.  The Royal Family looked very happy, and the reception from the massive crowds below was something to behold.  It was a wonderful end to a magnificent day.  It was beautifully summed up with the words from the coronation service: "God save Queen Elizabeth! Long live Queen Elizabeth! May the Queen live forever!"