I made a rash comment recently. Rash, but sincere:
“If I ever meet the Queen of England, I’m making a public scene.
I’ll walk up to her, bow, and pledge my undying devotion to both her and the crown, noting that, while I’m aware she commands vast resources, should she ever need it, my noble heart will make up for whatever nobility my blood lacks, and that all the chivalry Sir Walter Scott has merged into it is hers to do with as she pleases.”
I wondered if she would knight me on the spot.
My friends, expressing typical cynicism, said I’d get a beat-down by her security at best. At worst, she might actually do it, adding me to the ranks of sick sexual perverts and blood-thirsty oligarchs. (The round-table is looking a little multicultural these days).
But this fever of loyalty, even if only to a quasi-legitimate crown, has afflicted far better men than myself and while I was still in its throes (I think I’ve come to my senses, but I could relapse any minute), I said it would be better to think of me, in that scenario, as wresting a historical title from the hands of second-rate brigands. (I used those exact words).
Ok, I admit: I’ve always been a little naive.
But I’ll expect everyone’s apologies on the day I actually meet the queen. Because of this rash comment I’ll have something already in mind to say (instead of jabbering unintelligently and missing out on a great moment). The more grief I get for being naive, the more likely God is to set up such a meeting. He has a sense of irony – that’s one truth more certain than anything in a systematic theology text.
Still, I might contrive to make the meeting happen. On some weekends I’ve been driving to Richmond and surveying the night life. I happen to know that the great Margaret Thatcher’s granddaughter is presently attending university there and, well…stranger things have happened.
I also happen to know Richmond was (a few years back) the scene of terrible “flash mob” riots. The very heart of the Confederacy, subject to animal degeneracy! ~ sigh ~
The thought of that beautiful young woman surrounded by salivating creatures… (my readers should insert the appropriate curses and otherwise descriptive terms for them; I trust your imaginations).
If any of you feel that fire in your guts at the thought … well, my friends, that means you’re one of the living.