My Liege, my Lentils

I love The Queen almost as much as I love potatoes.  As a newly-arrived colonial, we lined up as she drove past my office in Buckingham Palace Road.  We were all rather high-spirited, and in my enthusiastic waving, I toppled off the kerb just as she drove past.  Hoots of laughter as she gave an indulgent smile and wave just for me. It's true I was teased for throwing myself at The Queen, but close up.... what a presence -  what a complexion!   

Last big Royal Wedding, I vividly remember the pervading feeling of joy. Charles finally had his Princess. There was something to celebrate. The night before, we climbed up Parliament Hill to watch the huge fireworks display. We were not the only people with that idea.  There were hundreds of us, all young and 80s trendy, drinking wine, happy laughter and friendly chat, doing what England does so uniquely well - crowds.  Join a crowd scene of any sort in England, and it's likely you'll never forget it.  We sat in the warm evening, the lights of London, our new home, twinkling beneath us.  I'll never forget that feeling. We were part of it. 

Like when Diana died. The day before the funeral, I went down to Buckingham Palace. I had happened to be in Kensington early that first morning, and my flowers were right at the very bottom of the sprawling mountain at her gates. This thing felt momentous and I still wanted to be part of it. The Queen was due  back in London, and the whole city had a quiet expectancy.  There were shrines, flowers, candles everywhere.  In the Royal Parks, every tree was a dedication to people's grief.  The Palace gates and railings were thick with letters, poems, ribbons and accusations. The crowds were four or five thick around the Palace, the TV cameras high on their plinths.  A good-humoured crowd, swelled with plenty of tourists, we waited for something to happen.  Then we saw it, coming down Constitution Hill, just above heads, the flickering gold and red of the Royal Standard, leading a huge and sombre Rolls Royce Phantom to the gates. I caught a glimpse only of the car. People crowded forward.  Not many waved. The tension mounted.  We knew there was a big issue over the Palace flag flying half-mast. And the very second the gates opened, the Royal Standard went up. Right to the top, it stayed for a minute or two, then all of a sudden, down it went.  We watched incredulous as the half-masted flag with a sudden jerk, went back up to the top yet again. The crowd gasped, then an Aussie accent suggested loudly that it was the Queen herself hoiking the flag back to the top again:  "I say it goes UP!"  It was a hilarious image, and the tension was broken. 

But of course The Queen was under serious pressure. As it turned out, she was deeply worried about the reception of the crowd. This was fast becoming a Royal crisis. The Royal Standard stayed at the top of the flagpole, but the next day the Union Flag was lowered to half-mast during the funeral, and is now flown half-mast at times of national mourning. The Standard is never flown half-mast, of course, because there is always a sovereign.

I couldn't see anything. There was no way I could get anywhere near. But I wanted to stay, I had to stay. I hung around Green Park, kept open, like Kensington Gardens, all night for ordinary people to hold vigil. Little groups, hundreds of them, a huge subdued party, one where everyone belonged.  It was dusk when I decided.  I would walk the funeral route all the way to Westminster Abbey. Down The Mall I went, heading straight towards St James's Palace, where Diana was lying beautiful and cold.  A wide imposing tree-lined avenue, it was completely deserted.  I had not got very far when I looked up to see it again.  That heraldic Royal Standard, atop that huge black car.  It was The Queen - my Queen, because by now I was a British subject. Fresh from paying her respects, she was slowly heading back to Buckingham Palace.  The only person in the street, I ran to the side as she passed. I ran with my arm up high. I waved and waved and waved. And The Queen, in a moment I'll always remember, her face white and stained with grief,  turned, and looked directly at me.

I'll probably be on my own to watch the Wedding, but if I had to make a celebration lunch for two, as we romantically did all those summers ago, I would do what I made the other night: a Royal Pork Belly.

Too jolly easy by far, salt and pepper the biggest pork belly you can find.  Into a roasting pan, the oven at 150, three hours, basting every so often.  For the last 10 minutes, bring nearer the top and grill.  Keep an eye on it.   To accompany, well, we had an excellent lentil salad last night, Boil puy lentils for 20 minutes, cool, add chopped red onion, chopped parsley and coriander, carrots, celery, radish, red pepper. Lots of lemon, mustard powder, a little mayo and oil.  Served with the sticky melting pork, endless crackling, and maybe some sweet chilli jelly - good enough for any commoner.