16 November 2017
Today I am to be decorated. Which kind of makes it sound like I will be wallpapered and given a fresh lick of paint. I hope Her Majesty’s choice in wallpaper is better than my parents’. In terms of home decor, I had a traumatic childhood. The day gets off to a good start: I get to say “Buckingham Palace, please!” to a black cab driver. He looks me up and down, takes in the precariously-perched fascinator, the ludicrously tiny handbag and my obvious unfamiliarity with my footwear, and nods knowingly. He then deposits me and my proud family in the middle of the Buckingham Palace Roadworks, which have been laid on specially. “The Queen’s not home,” he says. What, because of the roadworks? “You see that flagpole? – The Royal Standard’s not flying. She’s not there.” Maybe she’s just popped out for a skinny latte? “Most prob’ly gone to Sandringham. She likes it there.” I am tempted to ask how long it will take to drive to Sandringham. But my husband is already paying the fare and bundling us out. So in the end, I am presented with my OBE by Prince Charles, not The Queen. He is a terribly charming man, and experienced at making twenty-second bursts of extremely small talk with award recipients in the gaps between their curtseys. He also has a lot of staff around him, to make sure everything goes to plan. Some of them are there to brief us on how many steps forward we must take and when, and how many steps backwards, and when and how to curtsey, and how to address His Royal Highness, and where to b****r off to when He has finished with us. Some of them are there to protect Him, should any of us turn nasty and draw weapons out of our tiny handbags. Some of the Prince’s staff are there to sweep up straw and stray bits of fascinator. And one of them I am sure has a bottle of hand sanitiser at the ready, in case His Royal Highness has to shake hands with someone unsavoury-looking. Four or five of them are beefeaters. They are dressed even more stupidly than I am. But they have evil-looking pikes at their sides, which are probably quite effective against a tiny handbag or a fascinator. When it is my turn to approach the royal dais, and shake His Royal Highness’s hand, I am momentarily lost for words. He makes some small joke about patents and I am struggling even to remember the name of the Intellectual Property Office, and then I realise I have forgotten to say Your Royal Highness and I am so deeply mortified that I can feel my fascinator curling. The Highness intimates that potentially patents are very important. Clutching at this metaphorical straw, I agree with Him whole-heartedly. Then I remind His Royalness that IP is going to be even more important post-Brexit. There is a sharp intake of breath from the beefeater with the hand sanitiser, and he raises his pike an inch or so off the floor. There is probably some unwritten rule that you are not allowed to mention Brexit in the presence of royalty. I decide not to ask the Prince if he can arrange for Brexit to be stopped, and instead mumble a couple of Your Royal Highnesses, and one more for good measure as I retreat backwards from the dais, then I curtsey obsequiously and stumble away. In an ante-room somewhere I am reunited with my tiny handbag and ushered to a seat at the back of the ballroom. The back of the ballroom is cold. Apparently Prince Charles likes to keep the windows open. This is inconsiderate I feel, bearing in mind that most of the female award recipients have little more than a flimsy frock and a fascinator to keep them warm. The ceremony goes on and on, with countless people stepping up to make extremely small talk with HRH and an orchestra making soothing sounds from the gallery above. I am really not surprised The Queen has moved out for the day. Afterwards we join a queue to be officially photographed. This queue takes even longer than the investiture ceremony. We are not allowed to take our own photos; instead we have to wait to be seen by the Official Palace Photographer, and then we have to stand in the Officially Approved Grouping at the Officially Designated Corner of the Royal Back Yard, and adopt Officially Approved Poses. We will be allowed to purchase the photographs later, at Officially Approved Exorbitant Prices. Thus photographed, AT LAST we are allowed to exit the Royal Back Yard and go for our lunch. This, for me, is the best part of the day. In the back of another black cab, I swap my inappropriately petite shoes for a pair of comfortable boots, and the tiny handbag for a rucksack containing a can of Red Bull®. I feel much better after that. Shoving my OBE badge into the rucksack, I concentrate on trying to get warm again. We have a fantastic lunch, my family and I. My children are drinking non-alcoholic cocktails, mainly because they are supposed to be handing in university course-work this evening. So I drink enough for all of them. And when I decide I like the flavour of one of the non-alcoholic cocktails, I ask the waitress to do me a version with gin in, and she is happy to oblige, which is a sure sign that this is a Good Restaurant. My children roll their eyes at the yet another Mum Moment. I may have an OBE, but they still cannot take me anywhere.
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