The barge dips and sways in the choppy waters of the Thames. A dull grey sky overhead promises further rain, which has been relentless this year. Philip stares ahead, his face impassive, and I am left with just a fine view of that impressive profile. We are approaching Westminster at last. There is a lot of traffic on the river, occasioning much rising and falling of crafts. I try to remain calm and seated in a dignified manner.
“They are waving to you, Philip,” I tell him and smile encouragingly.
“They wave to their queen, more likely,” he responds gravely.
“Oh, they see enough of me,” I tell him. “It is their new king that sets the pulses racing.”
There are many people in smocks and work clothes on either bank. I wave and am heartened to see a flurry of additional waving, some folks
