I felt emotional watching the TV coverage of the Thanksgiving Service at St Paul’s on Friday.
At the Silver Jubilee (1977) I was in the back row of the Guard of Honour outside the cathedral in my HAC (Honourable Artillery Company) uniform. Kings, Heralds and Pursuivants of Arms of the College of Arms lined the steps of St Paul’s. On Friday there was a handful of HAC troopers on the steps and not a King, Herald or even a Pursuivant to be seen. (They are on deck at the opening of parliament – the mot juste as they look like playing cards.)
Some things barely change. In 1977 I was a lodger at Number 54, today I live next door at Number 56. The street was closed for a party at which my landlady fell over and broke her ankle. I was not at the party because I was taken into custody by the police. It is the only time I have been incarcerated in a cell beneath a police station (Chelsea). The police didn’t enjoy having me and my Irish friend to stay. We were transferred to Chelsea Barracks. There’s a world of difference between a police cell and CB. The officer on duty was a contemporary of mine at Eton and took us into the Officers’ Mess where vodka and tonic was slurped. Frankly we were already stewed to the gills.
My Irish friend got off lightly, or perhaps not; he was sent to Australia and Canada to conclude his military career. He commented philosophically, “strong smell of dog shit under the carpet … “ I faced the music at Horseferry Road Magistrates’ Court.