I liked the British Monarchy because of all the garish ceremony and ritual, the excessive crown jewellery and tiaras and clothing. I liked the way they walked and talked, with class and that infamous British reserve.
I suppose it is because I was raised in Canada, where in my generation, British rule was still at the forefront of our lives, our sense of humour, our mannerisms, our perceptions and our reverence for the Queen. She united us as a country and with Britain. Without her our country would seem fragmented to me, without roots, without a certain classiness, a sophistication.
And that is what happened after the Queen died. The whole monarchy lost it’s attraction. The Queen was the monarchy. She was more than just a figure head. She was an idol from a romantic period. When she departed this world, she took that fantasy world with her and the whole thing deflated. It lost its significance.
If there was still a shred of glamour left after the Queen’s death, Harry finished it off. Harry is the rotten apple that spoiled the whole bunch. He dealt the final blow.
I would rather have kept the fantasy.