Every morning at around 7.50am I listen to the “Royal Roundup” on Mike Hosking’s newstalkbz programme. He gives us a tough-in-cheek look at what the newspapers around the world are saying about the young royals. “While you were sleeping Kate wore two new outfits.” And “she changed up her hair for the first time this year.” Apparently “she gave her hair a rest by wearing a ponytail with fullness at the front and she wrapped a strand of hair around the elastic.” One newspaper said, although royal protocol demands that members of the royal family never comment on portraits, the slightly startled look on the face of the Duchess of Cambridge as she helped unveil the portrait betrayed what she thought, and what everyone else was thinking, of the less than flattering portrait.
I saw the portrait on the news last night, the Queen looked younger but she seemed to be slouching, she was standing with her hand resting on a chair and she didn’t seem to be standing up straight. The ‘experts’ have said that the hands are ‘not great’ apparently hands are harder than faces. Apart from that, it’s obviously the Queen, which is the point of a portrait I would have thought.
They are coming to Cambridge on Saturday and the town is abuzz, the Town Hall has been painted and the shop windows are full of very ‘royal’ displays, lots of Union Jack flags and crowns and photos and little tables set with fine china cups and saucers. Apparently they are stopping at the Town Hall for a light lunch before going on to open the brand new multi-million dollar cycling velodrome.
Over the past few days we have had rain and I can hear that the garden has stopped gasping which is good. The lawns and parks will green up very quickly now. And the annual barrage of leaves will start soon. I live in a town that has almost more trees than people and a fair few of them (the trees, not the people) are deciduous. For a few weeks we become the ‘town of leaves’ and they pile up everywhere.
On Tuesday I was in town and I saw my car. I was wandering down the main street and there was a car that looked a lot like mine. I had a closer look and the registration plate was the same, so I took an even closer look and the plastic shield on the back passenger window had a hole in it where a stone had flown up and hit it several years ago. The panels at the front had been replaced and the scratches on the corners were gone. Inside it looked pristine.
As I stood and surveyed it, the new owner crossed the street and started to put his key in the door. He was an Indian gentleman. I couldn’t help it, I went up to him and said, “Hello. You have my car.” He was somewhat startled. But nothing like as concerned as he became when I told him about the major accident I’d had in the car. It transpired that he’d paid around ten times what I’d been paid for the car, which was supposed to have been sent to the wreckers. I suggested to him that he might want to go back to the man who sold it to him and ask about the accident and make sure the chassis and suspension have been fixed as well.
And now I’m off to make a Union Jack flag and practice my curtsey.