Same for the wait. Other countries have been doing it for a long time, without mass riots. During the Cold War, Eastern Bloc countries often did little else. The UK has no monopoly, no sense of primacy, in making a virtue of standing in queues and – preferably – getting wet. However, our soul would have it differently. If we have tradition, it is in our ability to talk about tails and claim it for ourselves. Does not matter. These are the truths we tell ourselves. Especially in moments of national importance. Although there is no doubt that we have fun and queues just like anyone else. And when these two worlds collide, Britain hits its sweet spot. It becomes, for a few days at least, a gentler, more cheerful place. Where differences can coexist peacefully. Although not for long. It turns out that as many people were outraged by the BBC’s wall-to-wall hagiographic coverage of King George VI’s funeral as they were by the Queen’s programming. By Thursday morning – or D+7, as Buckingham Palace calls it – the royal family had backed off. King Charles had retired to Highgrove for a time. Time for personal reflection after a week of activities to honor his mother and strengthen his membership. William and Kate went to Sandringham to thank the staff. Harry was no doubt just wondering why he had been given the same treatment as Prince Andrew and made to wear kilts during the procession to Westminster Hall the day before. It wasn’t like he was an alleged sex offender. His only crime was being a little confused and falling in love with an attention-hungry B-list American TV star. Even Prince Edward was allowed to play a soldier along. And he only lasted a few days at marine boot camp in Lympstone. The only theater of operations he had to endure was the Cats. This was the audience’s day. A time for ordinary men and women to come and pay their respects and say their own goodbyes to the Queen. Those who had prepared to queue up to seven hours to spend a few moments near her coffin. They must have woken up in the middle of the night, wrapped in rugs and sleeping bags. But by the time they entered the hall, they were only carrying the odd sack and backpack. Their possessions had somehow dematerialized. People came prepared with chairs, books and Beanos to queue for the Queen lying in state. Photo: Jill Mead/The Guardian Visitors arrived from the south entrance and almost to a person stopped at the top of the stairs to take in the grandeur of the 11th century hall. Not just the Queen’s coffin, draped in the royal standard and topped with the crown and mace, perched on the purple catafalque, but the washed stone walls and hammer-beamed wooden ceiling. Westminster Hall is by far the most impressive building in Westminster. There was no better place to feel part of history. From the stairs, people slowly descended until they reached the same level as the coffin itself. Then they stopped, lost in thought. Both for the Queen and what she stood for. Not only her qualities of duty and service, but also as the matriarch of the nation. The ultimate mother figure. Someone who was an unconscious psychological support for so many people. A tabula rasa on which they could place their own hopes and fears. And to whom might they project their grief over other losses: family and friends. One whose longevity had suggested a permanence that could never be fulfilled. The Queen’s death was an unwelcome reminder of what was coming to us all sooner or later. Maybe some people even needed to be there as a reality check. To see with their own eyes that the queen was indeed dead. Because only by acknowledging it could they move forward. Mourners pass the Queen’s coffin under the roof of Westminster Hall with pallbearers. Photo: Sarah Lee/The Guardian Some bowed or bent over the coffin. Others simply nodded. A couple of men in uniforms greeted. A few people shed tears. A couple had bought their three children, all of whom looked to be under the age of five. How they had survived the queue was anyone’s guess. Scattered around were various MPs – Andrea Jenkyns, George Eustice and Alun Cairns – and other parliamentary estate workers who had been allowed to jump the queue. They were easy to pick out, even without their passes. They were the ones who didn’t look tired from queuing for seven hours. Every 20 minutes the 10-man guard of Beefeaters, Grenadiers and Gentlemen at Arms in ostrich hats changed. From the side of the hall, an officer tapped his metal pike twice on the floor, and from the north end a new group appeared to take their place. They would then lower their heads and swords and stand still around the pyre. Like so much of the fanfare presented this past week, it was both absurd and enchanting. And oddly touching. Even to a die-hard Republican. Most impressive of all was the silence. The silence. The only noise in the hall came from the spurs of the Gentlemen of Arms on the stone floors during the changing of the guard. The guests’ feet were muffled by carpets. Finally, we had a chance to turn inward. To think what we wanted to think without being judged or told how to feel. After a week of nonsense, I’ve finally had enough of Huw Edwards’ commentary. I think it was ‘The lights at the Yellow Box Storage Company here on the A40 which the Queen loved and knew so well were dimmed as a mark of respect’ that finally did it for me. Although I could have made it up. I’m sick of being played. Of manipulation. And it took half an hour in Westminster Hall to feel some peace. But then, I didn’t have to queue for seven hours to seek nirvana.
