The Day of the Funeral

The Queen died on the first day of my holiday and it was rather extraordinary that I first found out via a text from Roam. We joked about that. And I got one on him when I picked him up on it not being a laughing matter and he thought I was being serious. He apologised, which was rather touching. Her majesty’s death didn’t really touch me then and it hasn’t since. She was 96. My first thought was how wonderful to have left the world with so little fuss. She’d lost her husband and managed to outlast Boris. It was like her job was done at that point. I think she’d be mortified by all the fuss that’s been made since she keeled over. 

Being away meant it was easy to avoid all the media coverage of the last ten days. I had no intention of breaking my resolve today. That might be a shock to some? It’s not that I have no respect for the Queen. It’s just that I feel no connection. I’ve always been agnostic when it comes to the Royal Family. The whole thing is a ridiculous anachronism but I get that the charade does kind of work in propping up our ancient system of government. She served the country well, no doubt about that, but so have countless others.

I may not have watched any television or heard any radio but I have read quite a few commentary pieces, especially about that queue. It was wonderful how that became such a rich shared event for people. It’s a signal of how much we crave that kind of experience for ourselves. The opportunity doesn’t come along too often.

I’ve examined my own feelings and started to worry about my lack of any sorrow. Is there something wrong with me? The whole country seems to be gripped by mass hysteria. Why is all this ritual and obsession of so little interest to me? I could easily imagine myself to be in a very small minority, except that everyone I’ve spoken to this last week, with the exception only of my mother, feels the same way as I do. I actually don’t know of anyone else who watched the funeral today! Perhaps we’re actually in the vast majority?

On the other hand, a walk into town in the morning revealed very few people about and those that I did see avoided giving me any eye contact. One even crossed the road to avoid me. It was as if everyone was feeling guilty about being on the street instead of in front of the television. There was virtually no traffic on the roads. It was like a throwback to the earliest days of lockdown. I was beginning to worry that I’d fail to find someone to photograph when I heard a giggle and then a laugh and this lovely couple appeared, all smiles. Thank goodness. Normality was restored. Thank you Hannah and Keki :)

I will admit that there’s probably a certain stubbornness involved in my decision not to tune into the funeral today. I’ve been trying to deconstruct that. I think I object to what is, to put it bluntly, the orchestration of our grief at such a monumental event. I’m in awe of the planning. The pageantry was undoubtedly spectacular. I’m sure if I’d started watching I would have got sucked into the story. I made the decision to take control of my own grief and not be brainwashed. My gesture was to commit my evening to a film I’ve been wanting to watch for some while, saving it for the right occasion. This was it. Drive My Car is Japanese, three hours long, a slowly paced ode to grief built around a performance of Chekov’s Uncle Vanya. It was utterly compelling from start to finish. And proved that I’m not completely numb to emotion.

Anyone else out there bold enough to admit to not having watched the funeral?