Blanked again. She’s bound to have enough on her mind, granted, but the Queen has forgotten my invitation to the garden party at Holyrood in July. Again.
Why are these chinless wonders asked back year after year? Careering down the Canongate in their fancy togs (cop us, we’ve been invited to the party and you haven’t, so there).
Second-hand clobber anyway. You get a whiff of the mothballs a mile off. It’s the class thing, innit? I mean, it’s not as though I don’t own a presentable suit.
To be truthful, I’m still wearing the (special occasion) suit I wore when this newspaper office was officially opened by the Queen and the Duke. They were introduced to the employees.
Her Majesty stopped at my desk. She probably won’t remember but we had a wee blether and I was able to reassure her that if ever she ran short of milk or sugar across the road I’d nip over and see her alright.
Philip, meanwhile, had been waylaid by colleagues elsewhere in the office. He’d have been chuffed with a chinwag with me, a fellow ex-serviceman.
Having mingled with the monarchy close up, you’ll understand why it rankles when, time and again, they bodyswerve me for the party, yet so many non-achievers traipse down the Canongate year after year, noses in the air.
Even a cast-aside curled-up cucumber sandwich would keep my gob shut. And this suit’s not going to last for ever.
Afterwords . .
. . . we daren’t forget Bernard Manning, who had I LAF on his plates. The adorable Bernard, I recall, once said: “They all say they’re going to dance on my grave. That’s OK by me cos I’m going to be buried at sea.”