A little over a week ago Britain indulged in a long weekend to celebrate the fact that HRH Lizzie has been sitting pretty at the head of the empire for 60 years. Across the country people celebrated with bunting and street parties, and in London the diamond jubilee was marked by the requisite pageantry. On Sunday 100 boats paraded down the Thames in honor of the occasion, and the Royal family was out in force (minus Prince Philip who was ill, or as I'd like to think, confined to the Palace lest he make one of his infamous gaffs) to greet the adoring public.
My own Sunday started with the best of intentions - go to the river, see the spectacle, glimpse the Queen - and quickly deteriorated into this:
Fun fact: One of my lesser known life skills is the ability to open non-twist top bottles with a key. Who says a university education isn't worthwhile?
I did, however, manage to attend a street party. Admittedly the street was Brick Lane, and the fare less cupcakes and cucumber sandwiches and more cider and cigarettes; and by the time I got there I had already experienced a full night of debauchery and a 3-way spoon with two people who had been strangers just hours before. But really, what's the use of having an elderly head of state if you can't spend a few hazy days on it in her name?
Weekends like this make me think that, for all my moaning and flighty ideas and lack of citizenship, there is a distinct possibility I might just stay here forever.