The bunting has been ready for a few days whilst we waited for the right time. Not too soon…not too late. Late on Thursday afternoon we decided it was just about right and went out to hang it around the house, inside and out. It was time to begin our own celebration of The Queen’s Platinum Jubilee

Our flag - the Union Flag - has a right and a wrong way though, so better make sure we get it right, made more tricky by hanging it sideways! We don’t want to be sending signals of distress, do we? Thankfully, my Brownie membership was great training for such times and from one side of the gate, at least, we’re ok on this occasion.

We hung some smaller, cuter bunting in the garden room too. I’d spotted this cardboard design online and with an eye on the weather forecast for the next few days, thought it had better remain indoors.

Actually, it was the design of the tea towel which caught my eye, depicting Her Majesty sitting in a comfy chair wearing slippers and enjoying the company of her corgis and surrounded by her family photographs. In the light of how things are turning out, perhaps it’s not so far from reality?

The conversation almost everywhere I’ve been these last few days has centred upon the Platinum Pudding. The same questions popped up each time too: how much will be made from scratch and what shortcuts will be taken? In my case, the main shortcut was the swiss roll - I bought a couple of lemon swiss rolls, some ready-made custard and a box of almond biscuits from the supermarket rather than make them myself. After all, I was making a smaller version for just the two of us - well, three if we include Bettine, whose reluctance to embrace the events of the weekend might extend to the trifle too!

The proportions of my trifle bowl were not quite right either, but as I put it in the fridge to chill overnight, it looked ok.

The end result looked perfectly fine once the cream and almond biscuits were on the top - not a single Amaretti biscuit was to be found around here by the time I went shopping for ingredients. Maybe I should have made them from scratch after all?

The official Platinum Jubilee portrait of Her Majesty The Queen at Windsor Castle was taken by photographer Mr Ranald Mackechnie.

So far, we’ve enjoyed the spectacle of Trooping the Colour and the Service of Thanksgiving from St Pauls Cathedral yesterday. Perhaps I’ll watch The Epsom Derby later and we’ll probably watch the Platinum Party from the Palace this evening, hoping that the rain will have passed over by them (it’s pouring with rain here as I write). No time so far to listen to the celebration playlist though!

I have, however, been captivated by the work of the Port Laureate, Simon Armitage once again. I thought the poem he wrote on the occasion of Prince Philip’s funeral was so apt (that phrase about unrolling plans on vehicle bonnets) and was curious to read his contribution to the Platinum Jubilee too. Again, I am in awe of his ability to capture the spirit of the occasion - and of the person - so well in just seventy lines.

Thankfully, The Times printed the poem in full.

Queenhood: An exclusive poem for the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee 2022 by the poet laureate

I

An old-fashioned word, coined in a bygone world.
It is a taking hold and a letting go,
girlhood left behind like a favourite toy,
irreversible step over invisible brink.
A new frock will be made, which is a country
hemmed with the white lace of its shores,
and here is a vast garden of weald and wold,
mountain and fell, lake, loch, cwm.
It is constancy and it is change:
the age of clockwork morphs into digital days,
but the song of the blackbird remains the same.

II

Queenhood: a long winding procession
from the abbey door to the abbey door.
Queenhood: vows taken among bibles and blades,
beneath braided banners and heralding horns;
the anointment of hand, breast, head, with oil
of cinnamon, orange, musk and rose; promises
sworn in secret under tented gold
so daylight won’t frighten the magic away,
too sacred by far for the camera to see.
It is an undressing first then a dressing up,
a shedding of plain white cloth then the putting on
of a linen gown and the supertunica — dazzling gold foil
lined with crimson silk. Man will walk
on the moon, great elms will fail and fall.
But a knife’s still a knife. A fork’s still a fork.

III

So the emblems and signs of royalty are produced:
the gilded spurs; the blued steel sword — like a sliver
of deep space drawn from the scabbard of night —
to punish and protect; bracelets to each wrist,
sincerity and wisdom — both armour and bond.
Love is still love is still love, and war is war.

IV

And indestructible towers will atomise in a blink.
The God particle will be flushed from its hiding place.
The sound barrier will twang with passenger planes.
Civilisation will graft its collected thoughts
onto silicon wafers, laureates will pass through court . . .
But Taurus, the bull, on its heavenly tour,
will breach the same horizon at the given hour.

V

Queenhood: it is the skies, it is also the soil
of the land. It is life behind glass walls
and fortified stones. Robe and stole are lifted
onto your shoulders — both shield and yoke.
Motherhood and womanhood will be taken as read.
‘Multitasking’ will be canonised as a new word.

VI

It is an honouring, but also an honour.
In the flare and blur of an old film
ghostly knights and chess-piece bishops deliver
the unearthly orb, with its pearled equator
and polished realms, into your open palm;
and pass you the sceptre and rod of mercy
and justice, one bearing the cross, one plumed
with a white dove; and load your fourth finger
with a ring that makes you the nation’s bride;
and offer the white kid glove with its scrollwork tattoo
of thistles and shamrocks, oak leaves and acorns;
then finally furnish your head with the crown —
jewelled with history, dense with glory —
both owned and loaned at the same time.
Do those burnished relics still hold
the fingerprints of a twenty-seven-year-old?

VII

A priceless freight for a young woman to bear,
but, draped and adorned, a monarch walks forward
into the sideways weather of oncoming years.
And the heavy cargoes of church and state
lighten with each step, syrupy old gold
transmuted to platinum, alchemy redefined.
Queenhood: it is law and lore, the dream life
and the documentary, a truthful fantasy.
For generations we will not know such majesty.

Signed limited editions of the poem are available from faber.co.uk