Thursday, April 14, 2016
Color Me Green
Yes, I fear I'm having the slightest - the very slightest - bout of envy.
I learned, you see, this afternoon that an old colleague - a lovely person, really - has (and I can hardly write it down)... gotten an invitation.
An invitation to a party.
An invitation to a garden party...
A garden party... (I expect you've guessed by now)...
AT BUCKINGHAM PALACE.
[Brief moment to regain my composure.]
Oh, I know they're huge bunfights for thousands, and it almost always rains, at least a little, and the most you're likely to get unless you're a heroic ambulance driver or the absolute pillar for six decades of a particularly tricky Women's Institute chapter is a glimpse from a distance of the Countess of Wessex or possibly, if you're lucky, Princess Alexandra - oh, I know. But still.
And I don't think my colleague, the dear woman, is even particularly amused/interested/impressed or even mildly taken with or by the whole idea. She's the practical type and will probably spend more time considering things like how they work out the square yardage of marquee per guest than she will the millinery, the refreshments, or the salon favorites pumped out by the various bands dotted across that famous lawn.
In case you hadn't guessed, I'm dying.
Now, it's not that I've not had a social whirl or two of my own, you know, over the decades - I went to a party thrown by the Imperial Household in Tokyo once upon a time, and had a very nice morning tea with the King of the Ashanti in his cosy palace in Kumasi, Ghana. And of course I've had years of waiting around for various Sandlandian royalties to arrive (and then to leave - it's questionable which is more tedious). I've even, at the conclusion of our lovely private tour a year ago last winter, had a nice glass of the royal bubbly inside the Palace in question itself (albeit not, it must be admitted, in the company of anyone more august than our very nice tour guide, a retired curator from, if memory serves, the V&A). But oh, my dears... a garden party at Buck House is something else entirely. And you'll have the invitation to keep the rest of your life (framed, if it were me, and hung in the downstairs bathroom).
What's the grandest party you've ever been to? Cheer me up, kids - I can use the distraction.