My failures

I have been trying to get an essay into 'The Globe and Mail' for the last couple of years.  Do you think I can manage it?  No.  Not one of the nine I have submitted has made it.  Frankly, I have no clue why because all the essays I read in that paper are no better.  My topics have included:

• Meeting the Queen
• Sunday family visits to the cemetery
• Two mothers
• Two fathers
• The Big Swim
• A family history through the linen closet
• Waterpolo
• The vanishing cocktail party
• Girls' weekend with my granddaughter

None has apparently passed muster with the senior editors -- although one almost made it.  It didn't and was cancelled at the last minute.  I blame my name.  I think the editors google me and my blog pops up.  They read it and decide they don't want their readers to think they endorse a radical, non-woke such as me.  So, I am going to blog each on these pages in the next little while.  Enjoy!

The Queen, the hat and me

Our magnificent late Sovereign.

“It appears you and your husband will be representing Canada when Her Majesty visits on Friday,” said the chair of the London Commonwealth Society in 2006.  “Do you have a proper frock?” the chair added.  I was speechless – not only because I was to meet Her Majesty, but also because he wasn’t sure I had an appropriate “frock” for the occasion.  “Yes, I have a frock and am thrilled I will be so honoured,” I replied with delight. 

My husband and I were in London a few years ago for an international Royal Commonwealth meeting and the opening of the newly-renovated Commonwealth Club.  As my husband was still vice-chair, I hadn’t anticipated our being the Canadian representatives, but luckily for us, the chair had to leave before the official opening, so we were next.   “Oh dear,” I exclaimed to Brian, “I have the frock, but not a hat!”  Off we went to Debenham’s hat department, where I found the perfect hat, which came in a rather large hat box.

My Queen Hat.

The day dawned.  Extremely nervous, I was up early putting on makeup and affixing the famous hat.  Although Her Majesty was not expected until 11, for security reasons, guests were instructed to arrive by 9:30 at which time all doors were closed.  So, there we were, awaiting the momentous arrival of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.  Walking in and looking around, I realized with horror I was the only woman wearing a hat.  In London!  We all know that once committed, a woman can’t change head-gear without exposing the dreaded “hat head”.  So, I asked someone I knew would know about hat protocol.  “If The Queen is wearing one, others may,” he told me.  “It’s a bit like a crown.”  Having never seen The Queen without a hat, I figured I was de riguer.  

The excitement rose as the hour approached and those of us who were to be presented were put in the official line and given detailed instructions about how to address our Monarch.  “Your Majesty initially and Ma’am thereafter, if she stops to chat,” said the lovely man.  “And of course, one curtsies,” he added, asking me to demonstrate.  I passed.  

As she mounted the stairs, I gasped.  She was magnificent in an apple-green ensemble and, to my relief, a matching hat.  I was safe.  

She approached everyone with her beautiful smile, but when she reached me, stopped.  I almost froze.  What was she looking at?  My hat?  Looking into her clear blue eyes, I fancied I could see back hundreds of years to the Houses of Stuart, Tudor and Wessex.  “You’re here for the meetings, are you?” she said.  “Yes Ma’am, I am.”  “Always interesting to exchange ideas,” she added.  “I’ve certainly learned a lot,” I replied, as she began to move along.  What possessed me I have to clue, but I threw in, “And I thought I knew everything!”  At that point she turned, looked at me and let out an audible, genuine guffaw.  “It happens,” she said.  “Believe me, it happens!”  

I visualized my monarchist grandmother, mother and aunts dancing around me, as thrilled as I to have met their beloved Queen.  

Leaving London from Heathrow a few days later, I stood in line with the formidable millinery box.  “Sorry, you will have to stow that, you can’t take it on board.  It’s too big,” said the Air Canada agent tapping at her computer, barely looking up.  I told her I didn’t know what to do with it and added, “This hat met The Queen, so I can’t wreck it.”  This caused an excited commotion behind the counter and I was asked to take it out and try it on.  So, there I stood, modelling my “Queen hat” for the excited agents and the visibly-annoyed long, impatient lineup behind me.

Eventually, they took the hat box and stowed it safely with the captain’s gear.  To this day it’s known as “The Queen Hat” and worn proudly whenever an occasion permits.     

Nancy Marley-Clarke