Happy Birthday, Your Majesty

I’m not a monarchist.  I didn’t watch the celebrations this week to mark the jubilee.  I managed to avoid the wedding last year (although my love of kitsch compelled me to purchase a souvenir mug from eBay) and I’m not even sure how old Elizabeth 2 is turning this year.  But I do love the Queen’s Birthday weekend.

In previous years, long before LSH and S&H, it was probably the biggest social weekend of the year.  The happy day would be celebrated the Sunday night prior, along with a couple hundred gay men in tight shorts/leather pants/sleeveless T shirts, dancing to a creative mix of techno, disco and maybe some Petula Clarke.  Bring out the bubble machine and pass the amyl.  Woot woot!

As I write this, all that is a distant memory.  The sun is streaming through the back of the house, warming the kitchen and giving the five loads of washing on the line a last chance for the day.  The house is warm and bright; it’s been a wonderful winter’s day.

After three days away from home, it has been great to have this day to do all the things that need to be done.  Bags unpacked, washing done, grocery shopping undertaken, clothes for work tomorrow sorted.  LSH and S&H are making bolognaise sauce for later in the week and the smell of frying garlic and onions is mesmerising. We are calm, all the jobs have been done and we are thankful for this time together.

But I'm not sure we would be this organised if we lived in a Republic.