Throughout his life, he was always Prince Charles. Now he is the King. The little kid is failing to greet his mother at the train station, the torturous schooling at Gordonstoun, marriage, divorcee, and death of Diana, and marriage to his first love, Camilla.
His and Camilla's enduring love story is the stuff of fiction. Whatever fiction is.
But what a reign of his mother. Around the world, in flights traveling from props to jets, always a hat, carrying a purse and wearing white gloves. An equestrian, a car mechanic, a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a great grandmother, a politician, and not just a queen, but The Queen.
With many queens around the world, when someone spoke of The Queen, it was understood they meant Elizabeth, Queen of England.
Regardless of the conflict created by wars, terrorist attacks, pandemics, and revolutions, there was always that one solid, square brick of a place called Buckingham Palace. That brick of a place always presented a degree of calm, order, good manners, respect, polished silver, a refuge of hope, and a safe unchanging oasis in the world.
It was The Queen's home.
No one in England would ever send his deranged followers on a mission to storm the gates of Buckingham Palace, attack the guards, climb the walls, break in doors and windows, urinate and defecate in the halls, attempting to stop the certification and the coronation, claiming to be the rightful heir to the throne, that Biden stole the throne, and he is the rightful King.
Never! Great Britain does not suffer fools.
Long live King Charles and that solid brick of a place, Buckingham Palace.
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