Wednesday, August 20, 2003


I feel a bit sorry for the queen. Her beach hut has burnt down.

Much as I know that dear old Lizzie Dripping and her family are not the most sound idea, politically, I can't help but feel slight affection towards them. How wonderful, that the Queen has a beach hut. I always knew that her natty line in headscarves was for a purpose - you can see her, sitting on a deckchair bravely facing the wind on a Norfolk beach, watching the corgis frolic in the surf. She might even have some kind of thermos of tea. Possibly monogrammed.

I imagine HMtheQ, and HMtheQM or PCthePOW out there at really intemperate times of year. It's the last vestige of the blitz spirit ingrained into the english psyche - the strange masochism of enjoying a bracing walk on the beach even if it's 10 below, and the sand is blowing hard enough to stip your ankles to the bone.

I suppose those lovely green quilted waistcoats the landed gentry are so fond of must have some special central heating. Other than the hip flask of vintage brandy, of course.

It's a charming image. Do you think they eat 99 flakes?

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