You kknow it's really fascinating overlooking Birdcage Walk. We stood watching the soldiers return. Band leader resplendent in red and gold tunic, the boys in their grey greatcoats. Behind the band, they carried stretchers, symbolic of the operational role played by the bandsmen in action. Behind them followed a procession of Ambassadorial cars. It's difficult to make out the flags from the 9th floor, but one definitely looked Argentinian.
Out the front for a quick smoke, RSA1 went past, flying the flag of South Africa. Only the chauffer was in it; presumably the Ambassadors are all having a sherry at The Palace. Y'know, spotting of Ambassadorial cars is proving a helluva lot more fruitful than Consecutive Number Plate Spotting - I've been waiting, in vain, for four weeks to find a thirty-one. Just yesterday, I think I spotted just about every other thirty. But not a thirty one.
I wonder which ambassador will be at tonight's concert. Two weeks ago it was South Korea, the week before that Hungary. I move in circles, y'know.
M'colleague, an ex-Army nurse was reminiscing about her early days at Chelsea. A Scots Guard was brought in after rehearsals for the State Opening. He had fainted.
Onto his bayonet.
Which penetrated his soft palate and nose.
I really must stop perpetuating the myth of London as a city of Pomp and Pageantry.
I'm probably due for a fucked up Underground episode soon.
