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.
Thursday 27 June 2013
Thursday 13 June 2013
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.
Saturday 8 June 2013
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.
Thursday 6 June 2013
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!"
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