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First they made her stand on a barge in the pouring rain for 4 hours watching boats sail past.
Then she had to endure an oiled up Grace Jones hula hoop for 5 minutes whilst wearing the Olympic flame on her head, listen to Rolf Harris all but beg for a Knighthood, and have her 64 year old son call her Mummy in front of the entire world.
Another day, another £50m brooch, and she had to go to church, obviously lonely without her poorly husband, be driven at a snails' pace to luncheon with 700 strangers and then off home to watch the rabble on her front porch wave OK! Magazine branded Union Jacks in her face. Oh the shame. Poor love.
It’s bad enough that she’s had to stick at the job she didn’t even apply for, for 60 years, but to not even be able to choose her own Long Service Toaster Award from the Argos catalogue – what a blinking liberty.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a huge royalist. I don’t collect Coronation Mugs, ache for an invite to a royal Garden Party, or indeed own a Corgi. But I do almost feel sorry for her.
We’ve all had a rather jolly couple of days off, eaten our fill of Coronation Chicken sandwiches and Jubilee themed Cupcakes, sang along with/laughed at the sight and sound of Sir Cliff, Sir Elton and Sir Macca and adorned our neighbourhoods with the free Rob Ryan bunting from Stylist magazine. She’s been at work. Waving. Almost smiling. And certainly not getting hammered on Pimms.
So I’m just putting it out there. If I get to 86 years old and am still having to go to work, I want much more than a stained glass window to celebrate my 60 years at work.
I want strippers and cocktails. I want to wear my PJ’s for 72 hours. I want to sit in bed and be fed Dairy Milk.
I don’t want to stand on a barge in the rain for 4 hours. OK?