The pageant won at last and as the screen warmed up (remember those days the image slowly revealing its self and when switched off, the diminishing effect as everything centred down an electronic hole in the centre of the screen) The Queen and her buddy the Duke were entering St Pauls. Its always noticeable to me how her usually stony face is relieved to find a minister of her church in front of her. The age old conflict between Church and Ruler is now a thing of the past but I think she keeps a friendly eye on them just in case !!
The gun carriage arrives wending its last mile through the streets, people applauding a few throwing flowers. My mind is thrown back to Princess Diana and her funeral, the crowds, the flowers the emotion you could cut it with a knife. This was a "peoples" funeral in the sense that Diana had been rejected by the aristocracy and had found a home with the people. Mrs Thatchers funeral was a funeral of the upper-class, stiff and self-centred. Little emotion showed in the ranks of the establishment, their breeding ruled it out. There was no haunting refrain from Elton John, no swelling sound as the congregation, gathered in the streets, took voice to say goodbye to someone they had never met but who had clearly born the weight of being outcast, they were as one.
Mrs Thatchers coffin born by strong shoulders and led by a huge bulk of a man, the Regimental Sargent Major, polished like a stone, stiff and resolute, you wouldn't want to mess with him. The slow assent of many steps to the entrance of the Cathedral slowly, step at a time, the coffin angled (has she slid to the end) the procession moved down the isle, the great and the good (mostly great) seated around waiting to be seen. As they left, held back like Chelsea supporters after the match, to come together again, in the various hostelries for a chat and a pink something or other.
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