There’s a friendly monster snaking through
The streets and parks of London city
It doesn’t snarl and it doesn’t bite
But it’ll make your feet rather unpretty.
It’ll suck you in and hold you there
Within its body for twenty hours
Gently chewing and spitting you out
At the rather imposing Parliamentary towers.
There you’ll see our beloved Queen
Lying in state for the people to see,
A final chance to show our love
And bask in the light of her majesty.
If you have been watching BBC News over the past few days, you will see that the headlines have been dominated by something very British: a queue.
It has become a monster in its own right, with people spending up to twenty hours in it, just so that they can spend a few moments with the coffin that contains our late Queen.
I must admit that if I hadn’t been working this week, I may have been tempted to go and join the queue while it was still under ten hours long. But as it crept up to a whole day, my interest has slowly waned.
I admire all of those people who are sticking it out and standing in line through a pretty cold night. But I’m quite happy here in my home, wearing my pyjamas, with my cat curled up at my side.