Diamond Jubilee—Singapore

Rather exciting this afternoon passing the fine old Raffles Hotel where Will and Kate rested their heads last night after their long flight. Tonight again in the very same place once their duties are done at the War Memorial out at Kranji.

         Yesterday prior to the State dinner and reception there was a visit to the new iconic Gardens By the Bay in the shadows of the Supertrees and the MBS hotel/casino. Indoors under one of the temperature controlled cool-houses the pair were presented with an orchid named in their honour. Previously there had been another named after the Prince’s mother, Lady Diana, which the unfortunate woman had not lived to see.

            Mid-afternoon a circuit of the entire hotel block was managed without raising suspicions. The front gardens might have been newly clipped and the leaves of the trees dusted. With the Bay Gardens Domes about as fine a presentation of the tropics as any young Prince could ever hope to receive. (His grandma had told the young man he would enjoy Singapore, the newspaper reported his speech at the State reception, as she had done on her three visits over the course of her reign.)

         Red carpet under the portico at the front entry fluffed. Two tall Sikhs in white tunics, epaulettes and turbans, pacing very tight circles at the end of the brass railing made a sketch of tame lions not likely to bite.

         Nothing really to hint at the special VIP’s. It was only at the very end of the stroll, with a visit to both ArtFriend and Popular stationery at Bras Basah opposite the hotel that the surest telltale sign was stumbled upon.

         Around at SAM—the Singapore Art Museum, where possibly as a precaution the inflatable bunny had been removed from the lawn — along the footpath directly out front a small platoon of khaki camouflaged red berets who could only be Gurkhas came on slung with heavy bazookas. Half a dozen lads peeking under cars and looking left and right.

         Beefy young lads who most certainly conveyed the impression they weren’t kidding. (The Gurkhas still serve the Chinese notables here, bred for duty of course since the time of the earliest forays of E. India Co.)

            A few more migs than usual through the course of the afternoon. The co-incidence of 9/11 must have been accidental. The anniversary posed a question. More than likely Malaysia would have been unable to host the pair. That might have been a stretch even for Najib, especially in the run-up to the election.

         Wrong in fact as it shortly proved. Were he still in office would Mahathir have welcomed the young Royals? Would he have bowed and scraped before them?

         On the Wednesday the Straits Times reported nothing of the disturbances in Cairo at the U.S. Embassy. As the conflagration widened it became too big to ignore.

          Just the other night in the anticipation of the visit the Mount Eye Metho (former) entertained the dinner table with the story of his encounter with the Royals near the beginning of Liz’s reign. The Brits must have had some substantial stake in the mining operation in Isa. Therefore the young Queen’s trek with her Consort Philo the Greek into the dusty wastes of central Queensland.

           Coming from good, certifiable Methodist stock (a couple of uncles in the Ministry), young as he was at the time, the Mt. Eye boy was entrusted with over-sight of the conveyance that transported the Royals down to the floor of the mine. An honour and responsibility thrust on young shoulders.

            The young angel Gabriel sat ready at the controls. No doubt there were more senior and trusted servants supervising, but no need spoil a good story.

            From on high the angel-in-the-making hears the carriage descending.

            Here Comes Our Gracious Queen piping through the teenager’s head whether or not the record had been placed on the turn-table that stage. Naturally.

            The anticipation made the young knight hot under the collar—as hot as he would ever be in subsequent years wearing the tighter collar of his calling.

            A fever so many hundred feet down in the bowels of the earth where rich minerals were to be cheaply had to gladden stockbroker and investor hearts.

            Here She Comes, Here She Comes. A long overture.

            Interminable. There were no electronic games then as the current generation favoured fir killing waiting and travel-time on the trains and buses.

            Waiting. Waiting. A good Metho boy had been well trained, but even so. It fairly seemed our gracious Queen was coming from a height up in the heavens.

            Impulsively the lad born and bred in the Isa fingered the levers. On came the Queen, yet to be a mother that stage. A long bow perhaps, but who’s to say the future lineage wasn’t given a spurt that day in the cavernous depths of Queensland: Philo eyeing the earthworks; the young Queen falling like flying. A certain kind of frisson later at the hotel between feathers and down.

            Down she comes. Any sec. now. The boy’s eyes scanning.

            Here she be, lo and behold. A sight to see.

            Early in the reign the young Princess now-newly-installed-Queen hadn’t got down pat all the finer aspects of posture and bearing. Perfect deportment in all conditions still being practised.

            For all the precautionary oiling and maintenance, the lift in the shaft shuddered and jerked. (There might have been hell to pay had the corgis been aboard and set up yelping.)

            The young Angel arrived at his reward. Come into his own. There be the Queen.

            Later the lad could not say with certainty whether Phil was in the same carriage.

            Within the wire compartment, all the bright-eyed lad could vision was smoothly glistening legs and knees.

            The more recognizable portions of the Royal figure followed in a blur.

            Blinded above all the boy by the flashing signal of snow-white knickers.

            Biblical times that would shortly form the lad’s chief study, witnesses of such-like events have been struck deaf and dumb and reduced to idiocy. (The Lady of the Queen’s chamber had provided a freshly laundered pair that same morning.)

            Clearly the very royal Lady Queen found it difficult to keep steady in the jolting conveyance.

            Glued knees inevitably become unstuck.

            Here was the young courtier’s unforgettable life-long moment indelibly imprinted: the essence of the royal line.

            The Diamond Jubilee and all the rest following, God save our noble Queen.

            There was no profile, admitted young Gabriel when he was quizzed about his day’s adventure, though it had certainly always remained to the boy to embroider the tale as and when he was inclined.

            More diamonds and pearls in the pipeline is the whisper here too. The contours of young Kate’s form given as close an inspection in Singapore by the traveling journalists as was the case all those years ago in the bowels of the Isa to her grandma-in-law’s.

            A toast and best wishes to the royal pair.