Call me royal

I found myself unexpectedly moved by images of the service at Westminster Abbey celebrating the 60th anniversary of the Queen’s coronation. It’s not that I’d give the monarchy as such the time of day: I regard it as a colossal waste of money and, as far as New Zealand is concerned, an apron string we should long ago have cut. But I guess it’s impossible for someone of my (baby-boom) generation not to have the Queen hard-wired into their worldview, and not to have at least some emotional attachment to it. Dammit, I was there at age six, probably waving a tiny union jack, as she drove through Masterton in January 1953 as part of her triumphal tour of New Zealand. Did she notice me? It’s hard to believe she didn’t, but the historical record comes up short on that score. Never mind; I wish her no ill. She has been a part of virtually my whole life, and while on one level I regard the British monarchy as a sensational lot of nonsense, nonsense, too, has its part to play in the richly unfolding panorama of these things our lives.