So I’m standing at Buckingham Palace just last week, waiting for the changing of the Guard, when all of a sudden out of the blue (or more specifically, out of the side Palace gate) comes this beautiful long black car. At first I think it’s probably just some attaché or whatever they call the guy who gets sent out on a Starbuck’s run, but then the car gets close enough for me to catch a glimpse of the passenger in the back seat, and would you believe it? It’s none other than Her Royal Highness, Queen Elizabeth herself, dressed to the nines in her smart pink suit, matching pink hat, white gloves and sensible handbag. (Okay, I can’t actually see the gloves and handbag but you know as well as I do that she wouldn’t be caught dead without them.)
So anyway, as the car pulls even with me I give her my best deep curtsey –gently holding my skirt (or in this case my "No Whar But Texas” t-shirt) between my thumbs and first two fingers, pinkies extended, first bending and crossing my left leg behind my right one, toe touching the ground, and then bending my right leg slightly and dipping from the hip, keeping my back straight while holding my head in a demure nod – when to my complete and utter dismay, she just drives right past and never even glances my way. Here I’ve flown halfway around the world just to pay her a visit, and she gives me the brush off! I know she’s a busy lady, but I mean really. Would it kill her to stop for fifteen seconds and let me show her a couple of photos of my grandchildren? At the very least she could have the decency to roll down her window and give me one of those thumb-and-pinky telephone "call me” gestures. Instead I get nothing. She just speeds by like she doesn’t even know me.
Naturally I’m trying my best to put a good face on the whole incident, but well, between you and me, my feelings are just a little bit hurt.