Bluebottle at the Feast
As a well-known character from the Groom’s father’s favourite radio show, I waited and waited for my invitation. In the end, confident it must have got lost in the post, I made up my mind to attend the ceremony at Westminster Abbey.
Oh Lord, I’m never going to find somewhere to settle. These Philip Treacy hats look perilous. If I landed on that one, I’d tip it over her face.
Mind you, that might be to her advantage. Uh oh, that boyo’s wearing his medal on the wrong side. And there’s another royal group; in the words of Richard Dimbleby, a royal commentator from the BBC’s past, “I’ve never seen such a royal group.” I like the look of that shiny pate, I’ll settle there. “Gerrorff, you slitty-eyed little s**t.” All right, all right, keep your hair on…Oh silly me. What a nasty character. No wonder all his children are so dysfunctional.
If that choir sings another dirge, I’m back to Brighton. At least my street is having a party. They were putting up the bunting and long tables down the centre of the road, having got permission to shut off the road to traffic. I’ve seen the Bring and Share list. People in each house are contributing different dishes to the feast. I had a jolly mouthful of cream cake and potato salad from No 3 before I set off.
I caught the early train, snugly resting in the engine driver’s lunch box, tuna salad sandwiches, but from the cheaper end of the supermarket tuna. You must think all I think about is food. I had to rush for the train because my taxi driver kept going down streets that were shut off and he became very angry, swiping at me with a fat, hot, hairy hand. I took pleasure in not tipping him. Mind you, I did not pay him either.
If I jump the queue at Victoria Station I’ll be home in time for the barbeque and more potato salad. I hope I get the one with garlic and olives. They are having 3 bands so someone must still be playing when I get there. And I can help them clear the tables from the tea party. I love jelly. Yum.