I had intended writing my thoughts on that wedding – the one which took place a couple of days ago here in the UK and which half the world seems to have watched even if they had to stay up most of the night to do so. The Royal one. But I think we’ve all heard enough about that. They seem an attractive and genuine couple, Kate and Wills. Who knows, they might just make a serious effort as they mature into their roles to try and dispense with some of the antediluvian pomp and inappropriate, false grandeur surrounding the British monarchy – an institution which is, in my view, well past its sell-by date. But this is England. We are enamoured of the past. People have written about the past and described it. We can trust it. You can’t trust the future – you never know what it will get up to. The future is the preserve of mavericks, mountebanks, rule-breakers and desperate men. Women even.
So although all the razmattaz, and the flag-waving (the guru Krishnamurti referred to flags with devastating directness, as ‘coloured rags’) and the cheering and the fireworks and the street parties (I saw none and know nobody who knew anybody who’d seen one or who had been to one) may be over, the country still reverberates with thrill of it all. (A man and a woman kissed on a balcony. Cheers rent the heavens and thousands went home happy) My woman and I have therefore decided to flee the capital. We have to take some domestic bits and pieces – crockery, bedding etc. – to stepson number two as he takes up his last term in Oxford to finish off a Master’s degree. Thereafter we shall head for the Cotswolds in faithful Ruby (See my ‘Hello World’ post) and commune with nature for forty-eight hours.
We shall sip a pre-dinner gin and tonic as we look out across the hills to the setting sun. (Yes, sun is forecast!) We shall sleep in silence and wake to the sound of singing birds. That, after all the recent excesses, will get things back into perspective.