The following sequence of events is the blueprint for a pretty sensational four day Jubilee weekend in London: All bringing me to the conclusion that I should rule out fame in any shape or form for myself.

Saturday:

Start optimistically: hang out your washing on the line outside.

Join Twitter. Shudder and pretend you didn’t.

Get to Waterloo – curse your fear of technology as you have no smart phone to take a photo of the food market by the National Theatre. Make note to self to grow up.

Get to sister’s restaurant to help butter 1000 ciabatta’s in aid of Sunday’s steak sandwich stall on Piccadilly. Mention to friend to pop in and say hi while he shops for a present. Let him leave 6 hours later, with a strain in his thumb and a case of the crazies. Also make sure to watch all 2 hours of The Voice UK final but turn it off 10 minutes before the results in order to go to the pub.

Discuss the rain in great detail.

Sunday:

Decide to leave your dripping washing out on the line in the rain. Stay optimistic for good weather.

Go to Putney to watch some rowers pretend they’re loving life. Take a photo of some rain

This is England

Get on tube to Piccadilly.

Arrive excitedly at stall to find friend from the day before has completely shown you up. Has got my sister’s number from the night before and got to the stall to set up super early and is now seemingly front of house bantering with crowd, chef and generally being an all round good egg. Call him a brown nose twat to make self feel better. Be secretly very proud of your awesome friends.

Have a Doom Bar ale.

20 year old American boys find they cannot resist this branding

Make self head of Doom Bar ale stand. Have an ale.

Tell passers-by about said ale. Like most great things, its from Kernow.

Have a steak sandwich.

“Did you say steak?”

Develop a mighty crush on a member of the Metropolitan Police Service whilst trying to persuade him to find his bobby colleagues for a team photo of them all eating steak sandwiches. Could not make this bit up – his name is Constable Angus MacDonald; was there ever a more aptly named man to sell pieces of cow to? Ee – eye – ee – eye – oh my….

Invite friends to the stall perfectly timed with opening of the heavens onto central London. Stuff them with steak.

Ignore rain due to impenetrable hat.

Create a party under a 6ft wide umbrella.

Go to pub.

Monday:

Head to Shepherd’s Bush for a street party. Stay optimistic; wear sunglasses.

Lemons

Watch a friend play bagpipes walking down the street

Claim a “team effort” when a friend gets crowned best bake

Watch as your older sister spends £30 on raffle tickets and winds a lot: £10 voucher to the local toy shop, a box of biscuits, some anti-bacterial hand gel.

 

 

 

 

 

Do not laugh.

Get the Queen to do some shameless plugging of a friend’s ski school and reward her with Pimms.

Go to Julie’s in Holland Park.

Have an espresso martini.

Refuse to sit still.

Talk at length about how caffeine doesn’t really affect you.

Make plan to go watch the Jubilee concert in the park.

Fall more in love with 2 things: 1) The British sky when you can see it 2) Tom Jones

Tom Jones and a sunset. Perhaps heaven…

Eat sister’s prize biscuits whilst she is lost in the biggest park in London. Tell no one.

Applaud cunning of sister for sneakily buying tequila when we flagged a taxi – thus leaving us with a challenge we naturally accepted. 6 people 15 minutes. Watch eyes get a little drowsy.

Sing. To every song. Loudly. You don’t the words, but it’s completely irrelevant at this stage. Its vital people hear your gift.

Tuesday:

Wake up. Congratulate self at stealthy being home. Sly boots managed it without even yourself knowing.

Stay perfectly still.

Stare at a wall.

Eat only After Eights.

For all the above reasons I have managed to clarify in my head that I would not cope with fame, nor being a royal. Love the Queenie, but poor old bird has never been able to run around Hyde Park hugging everyone. or maybe she has… Now whilst my chances of marrying a royal might be slightly marred by my lack of elegance, my appalling posture, the certainty that I will swear if I bollocks something up, my love of a gin and tonic and my inability to hide it, and my going cross-eyed in reaction to a camera being pointed in my direction… I still would shy away from any opportunity to join them. Unless Harry’s having a fancy dress party.

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