Who, like me, felt their expectations and anticipation levels sky rocket today upon hearing Buckingham Palace was in talks with staff, and an announcement would be made approximately 5.00pm AEST? I seriously thought either the Queen or Duke of Edinburgh had popped his or her clogs. I collected my oldest son from school for a doctor's appointment, and told him this was likely a day of great significance. He listened, not spellbound because he is after all a teenager, as I told him he would remember today; it is likely to go down in history. His response was, 'Yeah, one of the old farts finally died.' We sat together in the doctor's waiting room, and I told him about the day the Princess of Wales died. Of course I reiterated several times it wasn't certain yet that one of the senior Royals had passed on, but all the fuss and tension indicated there was something major afoot; if not a death, then possibly abdication, which would be a shock because it's known Her Maj not keen on that idea.
Once home, I ensured the chores had been attended to, and the dogs fed, poured myself a wine and settled in to view the great announcement. It became known the Palace would issue a statement closer to 7.00pmAEST. I felt slightly miffed, as did Mr Bingells - neither of us are by any means Royalists, but this suspense was gnawing at our insides, kind of like a rat on a rotting timber plank in a barn. Oscar Wilde said, 'The suspense is terrible; I hope it lasts!', a fabulous quote later appropriated in 'Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory'. Well, this wasn't that type of suspense. I wanted it over. I wanted to know, goddammit! Finally - FINALLY! - it was 7.00pm and the news station crossed live to Buckingham Palace, and some run-of-the-mill reporter looked at his mobile phone and said something along the lines of, 'Word just in - Prince Phillip is to retire from Royal duties.'
Mr Bingells and I looked at each other. 'Is that all?' demanded Mr Bingells in incredulous tones, before leaving the room. I sat there gawping at the television, wondering why I had spent about five hours on tenterhooks expecting momentous news, only to be told a man who's about to hit 96 is retiring. As macabre and bitter as it sounds, for this kind of build up, suspense, and tension, I want a death or abdication. Not that I would delight in the demise of either of them per se, not at all, but my psyche did kind of feel like a balloon deflating, flying around the room with the air pfffffft-ing from the puncture.
Truly, the last time I had a build up and let down like that was attending the 2007 Countdown Spectacular 2 concert. One of the acts was Plastic Bertrand, and I had been hanging out to see his segment (don't judge me). As we drove to Newcastle, I looked at my watch and squeaked excitedly to Mr Bingells, 'Three hours until we see Plastic Bertrand! How awesome! I can't wait!' Mr Bingells smiled indulgently and drove our Commodore along the New England Highway, the Hunter Expressway not yet in existence. We arrived at the venue, and took our seats. I was smiling and wriggling like a child on Christmas morning. The lights dimmed, and I almost squeezed my husband's hand in the excitement of it all. Then Gavin Wood (the voice of 'Countdown' as some of you will recall) announced that owing to unforeseen circumstances, Plastic Bertrand would not be taking the stage. I know, in the darkness, my face dropped. For a brief moment, it was as anticlimactic as anticipating a bottle of Moet, and being gifted with Passion Pop. Mr husband offered me his commiserations, knowing the depth of despair and abject bummed-out-ness into which I had plummeted. Didn't matter too much; I really enjoyed the rest of the show, with the exception of Dave Mason's performance of 'Quaasimodo's Dream' - the song is as creepy as fuck, and my brother, who was also at the concert, thought Mason looked like he had swallowed a packet of Mogadon before taking the stage. In any event, I kind of got to see Bertrand, the greatest thing to come out of Belgium since their chocolate, in the televised performance of the Melbourne concert.
But what a song and dance over the understandable retirement of an exceedingly aged man!
If the she-boofhead who was at the gym today is reading this, if you must text or read your phone, can you kindly do so from a safe spot near the wall, rather than walk around and practically trip/tread on me as I am on the floor stretching my hamstring muscles? Yes, I mean YOU, the woman with the black jodhpurs on. Oh wait... They weren't jodhpurs, but black leggings? In that case, put your goddamned phone DOWN, and get on the bloody exercise bike!
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