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London Diary: Reflecting on the Queen’s death

The line to see the Queen’s coffin extended up to ten miles along the banks of the Thames. People waited through chilly nights, bolstered by volunteers passing out hot food and drink

Published: Sun 24 Sep 2023, 11:29 PM

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A year ago this month, Queen Elizabeth II passed away at the age of ninety-six. Her death was no surprise—how could it be?—and yet, somehow, it was. A surreal mood hung in the air. It rained that evening. I walked to Buckingham Palace to see footmen fixing the death notice to the gates, just as they’d done for the Queen’s father and grandfather.

Media reporting conveyed a uniformly solemn scene. Crowds flooding in to pay their respects. Children shocked into silence. Older generations teary-eyed. But it wasn’t all like that. Tourists angled to get into television shots. Like I said, surreal. But communal too. Everyone in the same place, no matter their motive.

Over the next few days, mourners laid thousands of flowers and cards in Green Park. I spent hours wandering among the messages. From a little girl — To my Queen, I made you and Phillip some cookies for heaven. I hope you like them. From a reluctant admirer—To dear Queenie. Surprisingly I’m sad you’re gone. Unexpectedly I’ll miss you. You did a great job. So thanks. Orange and gold leaves drifted about. The crisp, delicious air made me forget that autumn had only come early because a summer draught had stressed the trees. It’s all very different from this year’s muggy September. The Queen dead. The seasons so much less predictable and stable these days. A new environmentalist King.

People travelled from all over the world for the funeral. Shops placed commemorative plaques in their windows. The Connaught patisserie’s famous chocolate hound went from brown to black to signify mourning. And then there was ‘The Queue.’ The line to see the Queen’s coffin extended up to ten miles along the banks of the Thames. People waited through chilly nights, bolstered by volunteers passing out hot food and drink.

I always made an excuse not to join. Work or friends or the cold. But on the final night of viewing, the wait time suddenly dropped to six hours. Without really thinking about it, I pulled on a jacket and woolly hat. I filled a thermos with tea and rushed out the door. I was among the last people allowed to join The Queue. My fellow late entrants were similarly ill-equipped. We had no books or collapsible chairs or power banks. But we were there. We’d made it. Again, we weren’t always good at explaining why. To pay our respects, of course. But also to feel part of something. Living history, just as the queen had lived through so much. Surreal.



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