King Charles III + Buckingham Palace London

All the King’s Horses

Where better to wave goodbye to the Second Elizabethan Era and welcome in the Third Carolean Age than outside Buckingham Place? Queen Elizabeth II Rest in Peace and Rise in Glory. God Save The King! Exquisitely uniformed bands from The Household Division, seven British Army Regiments serving the Monarch, liveried to the nines, play and march past. Each is a masterclass in music and choreography. Across The Mall in St James’s Palace, the terribly handsome Penny Mordaunt MP, Lord President of the Council, her mane swept back with a black Alice band, is opening the Proclamation proceedings. She lives up to her looks, speaking with polished authority. Bugles and trumpets sound. The King’s Royal Horse Artillery fire gun salutes at Hyde Park and the Tower of London, echoing across the crowd and down the River Thames.

A roar ripples through the crowd. The atmosphere is electric. Here he comes! A lorry carrying barriers turns the corner and comes into view, its driver waving regally. The crowd cheers and laughs. A young unfit looking guy breaks through the barrier and makes a run for it. An even more unfit looking policeman gives chase. The crowd cheers again before the guy is eventually toppled to the ground by five police officers further up The Mall.

The waiting continues. There’s a flurry of activity amongst the many security personnel. They’re all on their mobiles. Then at last the horse led convoy appears. The State Rolls Royce Phantom VI slowly drives past, enough to catch a glimpse of King Charles’ wispy grey hair. Hip hip hooray! And so His Majesty Charles III, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of His other Realms and Territories, King, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith, Supreme Head of the Church of England, Commander-in-Chief of the British Armed Forces, starts the first day in his new job, aged 73, meeting Prime Minister Liz Truss and members of her new Cabinet in Buckingham Palace. What a short commute! What’s his job role? To weave a line through the tapestry of time. No pressure, then. Soon, it will be time to dust down the ermine. Where does pomp and pageantry better than Britain?