Royalty and Jubilees

Bloody Royal Mail. 

Being British is a funny old thing. We spend half our lives being insanely proud of our heritage and the other half apologising profusely for everything that we've done wrong in the last 2000 odd years. We're fish and chips, haggis, Yorkshire Puddings, tea and biscuits. We're the Beatles and Take That, Torquay and Manchester. We're Doctor Who and Sherlock Holmes, Harry Potter and Elizabeth Bennet. We're the grimy inner city and the quaint seaside. 

We're also a nation composed almost entirely of contradictions and opposites. The stiff upper lip versus the eccentric. The gentleman against the street urchin. Exquisite manners versus hooliganism.  

We like a good moan. Especially if it's about the weather. Or queues. The weather is invariably too cold, wet, hot or windy. Or, our personal favourite, 'Grey'. Here in Britain, 'Grey' is a meteorological occurrence. A tediously regular meteorological occurrence. This is why the young ladies and gentlemen of Britain feel compelled to take off all their clothes at the slightest hint of sunshine. In Britain, sunshine is An Event.

Queuing in Britain means tutting, glancing at your watch and looking knowingly at your fellow queuers, maybe even throwing in an exaggerated eye-roll if it's a very slow queue.

That, however, does not stop us from joining a queue if one presents itself.

We eye a queue (the Post Office is a good one for this), trying to single out the weak. To leave a queue before you've reached the front is to dishonour your family and bring shame on your name. It's legitimately ok to be late to something if you're in a queue, because everyone knows you can't leave until the bitter end. 

As I was saying... (Staying on topic is another problem for us Brits. We do love a tangent). We like a good moan. But by God, we can't stand a whiner. By all means, have a bit of a grumble but then chin up, make an inappropriate joke about it and crack on. There's that whole 'Keep Calm and Carry On' thing for which we're so well known. And don't get me started on our stance over-sharing outside of the confines of gossip.

We also don't really like a fuss. Unless there's an opportunity for a fuss and then there had better be a fuss or else. So this weekend looks to be pretty darned exciting for everyone on our little island.

This weekend, we are, en masse, celebrating the 60th anniversary of the Queen's coronation. To the right, for those who don't know (looking at you, Steve Rogers), is The Queen. You can say 'The Queen' to anyone in the world and they will know you mean that one. She's quite the lady. So I, for one, am excited to celebrate her Jubilee. Sixty years on the throne is quite an achievement and we all know she's gunning for Vic's record so this won't be the last party we throw in her honour. Not by a long shot.

One of my very favourite things about being British is the fact we live in a Kingdom. We live in a kingdom with a Queen and Princes and Princesses and they live in palaces and castles and hob-nob with Dukes and Barons and the like. Anti-royalists and those who'd cheerfully abolish the monarchy think this is AWFUL. I, on the other hand, think it's GREAT.

How can you not be inspired to create and dream when you live in a place that for most of the world is like something out of a fairy story? Just last year, a 'commoner' married the most eligible man in the country, someday-heir to the throne, Prince William. That actually happened. We watched it. I even teared up a bit.

I love the pomp and circumstance of it all, the archaic pageantry. I love the protocol and the elegance of it. It all seems to happen in beautiful slow motion, a wave of the hand, a graceful nod. Yes, it's elitist and I'll never get to be a part of it in the same way they are. But I can't help loving it, all the same. There's still a little girl inside me that wants to put on a beautiful dress and go to a ball and dance with a handsome stranger. He doesn't have to know that under the dress my garter belts hold knives and my tiara is actually a Chakram.

Bargain

If I could go back to any time-period in history, despite my deep and abiding love for the Victorians, it would would be Tudor Britain. Because they rocked this kind of thing. They were all about the highfalutin drama. Parades, processions, hunts and jousts and tourneys and the like. Life for the Tudors was an endless parade of eating, drinking,  'making love' and making love.  

Admittedly, if you were a peasant like me, the best you could hope for would be to wait at the palace gate and hope Henners didn't eat all the pies (he did) and you could have some genuine Royal Table scraps. 

They couldn't do that now, the stuff would be on Ebay within an hour. And the best, in this era, that a peasant like me can hope for is a glimpse of a Royal Wave as a boat goes past, or to watch it all on telly and simultaneously tweet about it. At least in this era, I'm less likely to be beheaded for treason if my critique of some of the royal attire is less than flattering. 

So, yes, I'm excited about the coming festivities. I'm excited to watch this fantastic woman sail the Thames. I'm excited to go to a party and eat cucumber sandwiches and Victoria Sponge. I'm excited to wave a cheap plastic flag and get drunker than is strictly necessary.

Despite the state of the country, and the world at large, at the moment, there's still a lot to be hopeful about. Let's start it with a party. Let's start it with this party, to celebrate a woman who has been the global figurehead of who we are for the past sixty years.

And if that doesn't float your boat: FOUR DAY WEEKEND.

Putting the 'art' in tea-party

A fortnight ago, I flew out to my beloved second home to see Snowy, my sister from another mister. And lady - in fact, not in any way, shape or form my sister except in the sense of souls. Which is also an arguable concept, depending on your belief system. She's a nice girl. I like her a lot, we'll leave it at that.

Upon arrival at her home I was presented with the missive on the right, an invitation to Afternoon Tea. 

Snowy, being of practical and sound mind, had had the foresight to let me know beforehand that there was an occasion in the offing, so I knew I had a suitable frock. I was not prepared, however, for a glittery peacock.

Clearly, this was going to be a good party.

Afternoon tea is a concept that is widely believed to have been the brainchild of Anna Marie Russell, the Duchess of Bedford, whilst on a visit to Belvoir Castle, sometime in the 1840's. In nineteenth century Britain, the normal time for dinner was between 7.30-8.00pm. Because of the gap between breakfast and dinner, a meal called 'luncheon' had been created to be consumed around midday. However, Her Grace had found that the luncheon repast was not enough to tide her over until dinner, so invented the custom of taking tea and some small sandwiches or cakes a little later in the afternoon. She found it so refreshing that she began to invite friends to join her, and they liked the idea so much they began to do the same and lo and behold - Afternoon Tea is suddenly quite the thing in upper and middle class households. 

God bless Her Grace.

The afternoon before the Tea, K-Rob and I sat in Snowy's kitchen, perusing the beautiful The Vintage Tea Party book while our hostess arranged flowers and began to prep the food for the morrow. 


We were informed there would be four courses, including our mascot sandwich, the Huli Huli Chicken Sandwich. Cue paroxysms of joy from K-Rob (seriously, I once asked her if she had to pick between the sandwich and her fiance, which it would be. After careful thought, she told me she loved him so she'd choose him, but she henceforth hated me for even raising it. She also recently informed Snowy and I that she loved the sandwich more than us. See photo for her with the sandwich. Cow). 

Snowy also told us that on the menu would be Heston Blumenthal's Lemon Tart, chilled raspberry soup and a surprise. Almost giddy with anticipation, we took ourselves off to the living room to have some tea and watch Spaced.

The day of the party dawned. Thrown out of the kitchen while Snowy prepared, we took ourselves off to get dolled up, tea-party style. 

And then it was time.


The table was an absolute vision in aquas, blues and purples and the food was PHENOMENAL.

First up, a selection of sandwiches, the much-famed Huli Huli Chicken, the elegant cream cheese and cucumber, the classic smoked salmon and cream cheese and Snowy's own cream cheese and green grape.

GET IN MY BELLY! As the cool kids and that scary man from one of the Austin Power's films says.


Next course was the beautiful lemon tart, followed by the chilled raspberry soup and homemade chocolate cookie and icecream sandwiches. All served with a sparkling mint tonic, apple presse and, of course, tea, and set to a backdrop of thoughtful tunes. 


But did it do the job? Were we refreshed? Did we feel as though the luncheon/dinner minefield had been breached with elegance and style.

Fuck, yeah.

Hats off to Snowy for creating a perfect afternoon. And for very cleverly sedating me with food so I didn't go full-on mental when we went to Marvels: Avengers Assemble later that day.

Here she is, folks, the hostess with the mostess.

So what's the point of this blog, other than more showing off?

Well, according to The Vintage Tea Party book, it's very important that, after you go to a tea party, you send the hostess a note, thanking her for having you.

This is my note.

Thank you, Snowy, for organising, arranging and hosting such a beautiful and elegant occasion. I'm very grateful to count you amongst my best friends and I look forward to many more fun adventures with you in the future.
As long as you keep feeding me.

Love, Mel xxxxx