Knackered / Camilla Gate

Knackered

This is what I wrote on the way home last night: 6.06pm. Leamington Spa – London Marylebone train.

Hot, exhausted, somewhat fed up. It has been a knackering day. I feel I am not quite in control.

I am tired and can barely face the prospect of finding a new tenant. I simply feel too jaded.

8.11pm. London Victoria – Brighton train.

Particularly appalling companions – some people have no idea how obnoxious they are.

I could not sleep on the last train and felt like death in my suit, jacket and with all my luggage on the tube. But now, in this carriage, it is cooler and I am drinking Scrumpy Jack, almost guaranteed to take the pain away (albeit not the horror of the conversation going on next to me: ‘Gimme a question for a lesbian trapped in a man’s body?’ et cetera.

God, I am tired. The stress of recent weeks has been tremendous. I definitely don’t want to get another London Garret tenant. I shall telephone my estate agent tomorrow to discuss putting the house on the market.

I shall also feel a lot happier when (or if) I have sorted out a new flatmate for the Leamington Garret. Then I can plan for the rest of the year - and look forward to parting company with John. I wonder who will want to live with me this time.

I had planned to lose weight for the summer, but my back accident and has thrown that plan out of kilter.

Why is life always such a struggle?

9.05pm. Brighton – Lewes train. Christ, those people were so irritating! He was uber-camp and ultra bitchy.

She was, I thought at first, his pet, unlucky-in-love faghag, but then realised his tubby quean of a sister. Their conversation – cocaine, ‘coercive’ sex, picking up 15 year olds – would make a dirt track look virgin white.

There was no shame, no realisation that the other people in the carriage might not share their warped mindset. Lots of loud of detailed discussion of toilet activity. Need I go on.

I have nothing against people camping it up a bit, but when a young Home Counties man adopts a mid-Atlantic accent and starts screaming his sexuality, uninvited, into your lughole, with the encouragement of his ghastly, ugly sibling, then I do take issue with them.

Camilla Gate (Flashback to Friday, 26 May 2006)

Living Room, Lewes Garret. 10.14pm. Busy and entertaining day. After a frantic morning trying to sort out numerous issues for the Day-Job, I made it out for lunch at 12.30 to take Marina to see Her Royal Highness Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall,, who was visiting one of Francesca’s workplaces, Anne of Cleves House, to open a new gate!

I had said to Marina that I would go into the town and buy a posy from the florist’s but I hadn’t had the time and was running late.

So, in a panic, I dashed around our garden in the rain pulling out various flowers, whites, blues, a nice yellow one. You can tell I would cut it working in a flower shop.

I found a plastic bag to put them in and was pleased there was some rather nice dark blue crepe paper inside. Having picked up Marina, somewhat late, we walked the 50 yards from her school yard to the Anne of Cleves House.

I bumped into the manager, wearing a marvellously scruffy suit, and said: ‘No one will mind if my daughter gives the Duchess of Cornwall some flowers?’

He got the police who fetched the royal public liaison woman with whom I conversed. It was soon agreed that Marina could present her flowers.

We sat on the bench outside the house, Marina munching on her ham sandwich and drinking her juice, I chomping on an apple – left over from the Civil Service training course – that had found its way into the pocket of my old leather jacket. We packed our stuff away – and then she was there.

I saw a top-of-the-range Saab, full of burly besuited men, slowing down, followed by a Range Rover with bullet-proof glass – another security car behind it. ‘Get ready,’ I said to Marina, ‘This is it.’

The Duchess of Cornwall, looking impeccable in a lilac dress, got out, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. ‘She is a trouper,’ I thought. The official ‘child’ – an angelic boy in a bespoke suit – stepped forward and presented her with a florist’s bouquet. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

I pushed Marina forward. ‘Your Royal Highness,’ Marina said, unexpectedly, ‘These are from my garden.’ I was stunned, as, Idaresay, was she. Marina looked an unscheduled part of proceeding, in her scruffy zoo animals coat and well-worn school uniform.

The Duchess absolutely beamed at her. ‘Thank you very much indeed,’ she said, stooping to take them, ‘I hope it wasn’t raining when you picked them.’ The flowers were dripping wet, as was the crepe paper, so it was fairly obvious what had happened (her little joke, I thought).

She grinned at me, as Marina seemd to go into reverse. I smiled back and simply said, ‘Thanks.’

I had taken a couple of pictures on my trusty Nikon FM, one of the Duchess getting out of the car and one of Marina presenting the posy.

She went inside the house and the manager said to me: ‘I’m off down the pub now.’ I said: ‘I’m surprised you don’t have her working behind the counter.’ He quipped: ‘I asked her to do a bit of dusting on her way round.’

Reporters from the Brighton Argus and Press Association wanted to interview us. My poetry friend rolled up, in a tweed suit. We chatted about his poem for the website. But then it was time to take Marina back to school.

I returned to see the Duchess come out. The crowd of around 20 (how apathetic is Lewes?) was enjoying it, but the press photographers wore a look of abject boredom on their faces. Coming to a small town. To take a picture of a middle-aged Royal. No story from their perspective.

I chatted to the PA reporter, Lucy Collins, a pleasant woman who used to work for the Catholic Herald with Luke Coppin (she was in the advertising department in those days).

She was all right – had some enthusiasm for her work (and even called me later on my mobile telephone to check name spellings).

I went across the road and stood next to the press photographers with their big digital zoom cameras (me with my ancient manual Niken with 135mm manual lens) and waiting for Camilla to open the new gate.

If I were brutally honest, I would say it is surprising any member of the Royal Family could be booked to open an iron gate at a little house of no true historical importance.

Perhaps the fact that she was privately schooled in the building directly across the road (when it was Southover Manor – a prep school) had some bearing on her presence. Anyway, it was decent of her to come.

Surrounded by children in strange costumes and a man with remarkably large hair, she cut the ribbon, walked through the gate, smiled again, and was into the Range Rover and was off.

The press liaison woman said, ‘That’s it!’ ‘Well done,’ I said, and she looked surprised. Walking back, I talked to the photographer from The Times. ‘Short and sweet,’ I said. ‘Nothing of interest,’ he said, looking bored and put-upon.

But, maybe, ‘nothing of interest’ is what royal visits are all about. Royal Family members making themselves available for utterly mundane tasks. I love it.

I was suddenly gripped by a desire to put my film into one-hour processing, which meant having to dash to Tesco and back before the end of my lunchbreak.

When Marina and I picked up the pictures after school, the seven of the Duchess were superb. We have been dining out on this, with my parents, Francesca’s parents, anyone who will listen. Marina said: ‘I have really enjoyed today.’

That’s my girl!

Oliver's Poetry