What’s on my mind? The day Queen Elizabeth and I had a cocktail and a tête-a-tête.
was one of the most memorable of my life. Don’t get me wrong. The Queen didn’t ring me up to say: “Nicole? Liz. Wanna schmooze?” It didn’t happen like that. It happened because the Queen was giving a reception on the October, 1987 Thanksgiving weekend and my friend Moira couldn’t go.
The Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh were arriving in Vancouver, Canada, to meet the Commonwealth heads of government. With another commitment on her calendar, Moira asked if I’d mind stepping in to take her place.
was one of the most memorable of my life. Don’t get me wrong. The Queen didn’t ring me up to say: “Nicole? Liz. Wanna schmooze?” It didn’t happen like that. It happened because the Queen was giving a reception on the October, 1987 Thanksgiving weekend and my friend Moira couldn’t go.
The Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh were arriving in Vancouver, Canada, to meet the Commonwealth heads of government. With another commitment on her calendar, Moira asked if I’d mind stepping in to take her place.
Mind??? Would I mind??? I’d juggle naked (don’t ask with what) to meet the Queen, let alone have a cocktail and a chat with her.
Moira Farrow, London-born reporter extraordinaire, was on the guest list. But Moira had met the Queen several times, and had other plans for the weekend.
Which was why I, Nicole Parton, a simple-minded columnist with a turkey in my future, told my spouse to stuff it before I ran off to meet royalty, close-up and poi-son-nal.
Which was why I, Nicole Parton, a simple-minded columnist with a turkey in my future, told my spouse to stuff it before I ran off to meet royalty, close-up and poi-son-nal.
When the phone rang Sunday morning, a male voice asked: “Mrs. Parsons? I’m hmmmfff-hmmmfff (no recollection, but definitely not the Queen) of the Royal Tour office. Would you care to attend a reception with Her Majesty tomorrow?”
Rather than splutter something stupid and jump up and down because my name is and was not Mrs. Parsons, I reminded myself this kind of telephone call does not come everyday.
It took all of 30 seconds for panic to set in. A hat! I don’t have a hat! The Queen won’t notice, said my spouse. Gloves! I can’t eat sandwiches wearing gloves! Take them off, he said.
Clothes! I’d worn my only decent jacket a hundred times before. The Queen has never seen it, he said.
Monday, on the morning of the reception, I collected my invitation: I still have it. With its gold-embossed royal insignia, it’s the size of a cedar shake and almost as heavy.
The events calendar in the lobby of the hotel recorded a fictitious meeting in the room intended for the royal reception.
The day I met the Queen, Lady-in-Waiting Susan Hussey taught me how to curtsy - something I immediately forgot to do as I staggered, probably drooling, toward Her Majesty. Not that I really noticed, but the Queen wore a large uncut sapphire encircled by diamonds and tipped with an inch-long tear-shaped pearl. And clothes. I have no idea what, but she definitely did wear clothes.
Protocol allows me to report that the Queen sipped red Dubonnet with a slice of lemon; that her diamond-dotted pearl earrings were the size of marbles; that her then-brown hair (mostly hidden under a hat with an upturned brim) was graying at the temples; that her eyes were deep azure and truly lovely; that her teeth were perfectly white and even; that her skin was creamy and devoid of any makeup save a touch of rouge and powder; and that I saw her eat nothing - not even the mocha petits fours to which I formed a strong attachment.
Protocol does not allow me to repeat our two-minute conversation. Pity. Those behind me in the queue were already rehearsing their curtsies; it was time I shuffled off.
Meeting the Queen was like encountering Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy all at once - magical.
Meeting the Queen was like encountering Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy all at once - magical.
And Philip? He was okay, I guess.
© Nicole Parton, 2019
