The Royal Wedding and I.

The Royal Wedding and I.

The sign projecting from the side of the small wooden church read “To be reborn you must be saved” or was it the other way round? Doesn’t matter. I repeated that religious text but I did not understand it. I was reminded of that sign the following day when I watched a crow, trying to peck at something moving in the long grass. I walked over to discover what was capturing its interest was a cringing, dirty looking toad. It had not been bloodied but it did appear distressed, not that I have ever recognised a distressed toad before you must understand.

Irreligious people might dispute that we are reborn; though I am sure there is a reference to being reborn somewhere in our bible. Although one does not have to believe everything that is quoted in the bible to be gospel, unlike the Koran. We have ‘born again Christians’ so some people must believe in rebirth. So why should a crow attacking a toad and thoughts of being reborn have me thinking of the Royal Wedding.

Well we have to assume that on death if we are reborn then the toad I speak of in a previous life must have committed a dreadful heinous crime against Gods creatures. Was this toad the rebirth of Stalin or Saddam Hussein? A man or a woman of the cloth spends their allotted time on this earth in the service of God. Will their servitude automatically guarantee them a place in heaven or will it just assure them of a rebirth but way up the social ladder, maybe a duchess or an Earl. Do you see where I am heading here? I hope so; You know I could be in my metallic blue Maserati with an interesting blond by my side with the hood down going for a drive in the countryside rather than writing this, assuming I had a Maserati with a soft top and was not married, etc etc, that is.

I have pointed out to my wife on a number of occasions how fate works and how if she, by the grace of God, had been in a particular pub on a particular day in Tasmania breasting the bar when the Prince of Denmark walked in, as opposed to being ‘down the shops’ wandering aimlessly up and down the aisles of our local supermarket looking for some cheap mince for tea, he may have offered to buy her a drink or two.

Knowing my wife, quite a number of drinks later followed by a rash commitment by this tall fair stranger from Scandinavia is not beyond the realm of absurdity, or is that possibility? she could now be her Royal Highness the Crown Princess Mrs Janice Lenore of Denmark. She replied that I was being silly again and that anyway she would have to spurn his advances by reminding him she was a middle aged respectable married woman. I countered with; well he could have said “no-one has to know that, do they?” Stay with me, I will get to the point shortly.

The metropolitan chief of Police, a lady of middle years, but not unattractive with a reasonably slim figure and stockings whose name escapes me for the moment stood outside of Scotland Yard and spoke of a ‘Ring of Steel’ I visibly shivered. The threatening, uniformed men with dark visors and bullet proof vests, cradling sub-machine guns, fingers resting on triggers waited patiently for her order to fire on any smelly peasant coming within 200 feet of the entourage.

A garantued of Rolls Royces, (I made that name up actually), pulled up. I marvelled at the gold braid on the guests uniforms, even little boys had General and Field Marshall’s uniforms on. I was entranced by the ladies hats which I am sure I had seen before at the ‘previous royal weddings’ or was it at ‘The Oaks’ who knows? I loved the pomp and ceremony. They even sang my favourite hymn which I have recently learnt on my Vega five string banjo ‘Oh thou redeemer’ in the key of G and D, no less.

I sat spellbound. I whispered to my wife “do you know dear, I can slip into this sort of life with scarcely a ripple”

My boy made some smart remark about me not being of royalty, I pointed out to him, how does he know I am not illegitimate, conceived by my mother, an innocent servant girl who was both surprised and compromised by the scoundrel wearing the officers uniform of the 17th/21st Hussars sitting right up there next to her Majesty in the royal box. My boy is right though.

When Queen Victoria, you know the one that ruled over an Empire on which the sun never set, was being dragged though the same streets in her carriage, my ancestors position in society would have been very much the same. Their descendants would have been somewhat more affluent but the void between them and us would have been exactly the same.

The peasants, or is that the Queens subjects, pressed forward excitedly and screamed at the royal personages as they passed. What did they have in common with them? Two legs, two arms, two eyes and the necessary equipment to perpetuate the species that’s all. Perhaps they really do believe they are related. From now on in I am being kind to animals and birds; well I did relocate the toad so if I cannot reassure myself of a place in heaven the best I can hope for is to improve my place in society after my rebirth. It’s the horse and carriages, gold braid, Field Marshall uniforms and the chance to meet an attractive woman of class, substance and nobility. I will be deleting this article later. its to do with my wife's self esteem.