I’m sure I’m not the only one worried about Her Majesty The Queen. She’s in Scotland at the moment, and as part of her duty, this week, she accepted the resignation of one Prime Minister, and invited the next one to form a government. As it should be. But the pictures of her show an evidently frail but spirited 96 year-old: tartan skirt, warm grey cardigan, grandmother-smile. I worry that she’s looking older than she did in June when she stood on that balcony, and that the thinness of age might be quickly and quietly catching her up.
There’s a steady inevitability about it in the media - almost as though there’s a tacit understanding among journalists not to really mention it. And there is concern on all sides about what comes next.
A steady inevitability. She seems happy at least. Age can’t wither the fire of her generation - they were built of strong stuff, and she’s had seventy years of proving it, doing so from the highest point in the land. If there is a steady inevitability about anything, it’s that. She will probably be regarded as our greatest monarch.
Anyway. I’m worried about her, even though she’s beaming with joy in those photos. You know, I’m pretty sure she knows where she’s going, and it would not even be surprising at this point to find out that she also knows when. That smile is the confidence of heaven. I’ve seen it on frail faces before.
It is as always, the rest of us who live with the sadness when she’s gone. And in her case, it’ll be a whole world that won’t ever be quite the same.
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