I travelled to the Queen Mother’s funeral on the back of G’s enormous motorbike. This was my first such experience, and I was grateful for the protective clothing that G lent me, including the special contraption to attach my feet to the pedals of the bike. G’s outfit was even more sophisticated: invisible spikes ran the length of his yellow trouser legs, ready to pierce anyone who came too close.
Just about everyone else lining the Thames on this sad state occasion was dressed more sombrely in black, with many of the women in hats and veils. G assured me that I could change into my funeral garb just as soon as we reached the riverside beach huts. There he took one hut, and gave me keys to another. I’d never been inside a riverside beach hut before, and was impressed at how spacious they were. This one was especially well kitted out for bathing, with a wet room as well as a full-sized bathroom.
The only problem was that two other parties believed that the beach hut belonged to them. Instead of watching the funeral procession, we spent the rest of the afternoon arguing over the single set of keys.
Dreamaticus 