I did reflect at eight o’clock this- evening. Indeed, I did so for longer that the mere minute that was officially encouraged. I confess however, that my mind wandered, and I found myself thinking about my own life rather than that of Queen Elizabeth II, an act of pure self-indulgence, please forgive me. My excuse is that she is part of the constant backdrop to my entire life, having been born four years into her reign. Everything that I can remember happened whilst she was our Queen: Her broadcast was part of every Christmas Day.
I swore my allegiance to her on ten occasions. As my mind ranged over the years, I recalled my Grandparents. They were enthusiastic Royalists. One granny had collection of coronation mugs which now adorn my office at Westminster. My grandpa, a soldier of the first world war , who saw the angels of Mons, had a photograph of the young Queen displayed in the ‘back room’ , he would always refer to her as “my Queen” and would stand to attention when the national anthem was played at the end of the evening’s broadcasts – yes! the telly -a very substantial item of furniture- stopped every night and didn’t resume till late afternoon the following day. There were only a couple of channels, and they were just black and white. Do you remember the Test Card with 359 lines?
After the national anthem the image on the screen would disappear into a white dot in the centre and a high-pitched whine would continue until it was switched off.
They never had a fridge: they didn’t need one; the cupboard in the front room was quite cool enough. The front room was only for entertaining, I only ever recall it being used once a year for ‘Hogmanay’ which was also my grandpa’s birthday. Life during the day was lived in the ‘scullery’ (a sort of annex to the kitchen) in which a coal fire was lit first thing in the morning. After tea in the evening, life would move into the ‘back room’ where another coal fire was lit.
In the mornings my brother and I would scratch designs into the frost that had formed on the inside of the windowpanes. We would be sent down the street to fetch Granny’s “messages” (her shopping). This could be quite confusing because she would always refer to shops by the names that they had been known by years previously, when they had been opened by former Italian Prisoners of war that had decided to settle in the town. There were no supermarkets, you queued at each shop and asked for what you wanted at the counter. On our way to and from the shops we would rush up the footbridge if a train was passing and stand enveloped in smoke.
Even the money was different: We were given a threepenny bit to put in the collection on Sundays. We got two shillings pocket money (called a ‘florin’, now replaced by 10P) and if you got a ten bob note (50P) on your birthday you were a wealthy boy – or even a postal order, remember them?
There were no mobile phones, no constant noise of social media, no tyranny of email. If you wanted to telephone someone you had to ring the exchange and ask to be put through to their number. Remember button A and button B in the telephone box?
Of course, the downside was that if you were travelling and were planning to meet someone, you had no way of letting them know that you would be late, or even not going to make it at all, potentially ending a relationship when you had arranged to meet up with your girlfriend in Rome.
They lived modestly, but my grandpa always took pride in his appearance. I’ve inherited his morning suit and top hat. I wore them to every audience I had with Her Majesty when I was her Vice-Chamberlin, and I wore it to her lying in state last week