Another posting gone…
As the Queen’s birthday party swings around again, a fond farewell to the island
ONE OF the diplobrats came out with a classic as I was driving her home from school yesterday. “Mummy, why does the Queen never come to her birthday party?” Just as I was thinking up an answer to this perfectly reasonable question her older sister lashed at her with snake-like tongue: “Oh! You are soooooooooooooooooooo stupid. There are only about five hundred million embassies all over the world having Queen’s Birthday Parties in early June and how is she going to get to all of those? She’s not Santa Claus you know.” Yes, and it is not even her real birthday… but who’s complaining? It is always a great excuse for a Quite Big Party and we are in the throes of preparing our last one in Cyprus as I write.
When I first arrived here I was a QBP virgin but I have had it three times now and I am feeling rather experienced. The first time I stood in line to greet the several hundred people who stream through the house in the first fifteen minutes or so I didn’t know what a sacrifice I was about to make for Queen and country… of course a few insignificant broken bones don’t really matter but it did put me mind of an original Mel Calman cartoon I stole from my Godfather many years ago. Conversation between two men, one with arm in sling: “How did you do that? Skiing?” “No, shaking hands.” Quelle Blague Parfaite. These days I have learnt to take precautions before having social intercourse on such a large scale. I mean, obviously, that I remove all rings from my right hand…
Experience has taught me not to worry. The team of Quite Brilliant Professionals who run this house together with an army of freelancers just make it happen. And with a smile. Military Bands turn up and play on time. Tents magically appear in the garden. Queen Brenda’s Poisoners have been filling the freezer for weeks. OK, I know the Fish and Chip stall catches fire sometimes but you can’t have it all. And it is George’s big day. George creates a lawn every year to rival anything in the home counties. All year round he builds up to this moment and always excels himself. “Yes, but wait until you see it covered in fag ends tomorrow, Kyria,” he says when you congratulate him on the day. I think of him – and the worms – as I go around during the event, aerating the grass with my high heels. People who have had it more times than me have learnt to come in their Birkenstocks…
Last year we were pretty light on our lawn because about three hundred of our potential guests were stolen by a certain large Italian tenor, that is, the ones who didn’t just drop in for a bit of Quiche Before Pavarotti. I suspect a fair few others were ruled out of coming by the postal service. I am referring to the postal service in the north of Cyprus. One of our favorite coffee table books is last year’s Christmas present from the Turkish Ambassador. It is a 2001 publication called Postal History of the Turkish Cypriot Posts (sic) and it goes all the way up to 1989, followed most helpfully by a couple of plain ruled pages for anyone who wishes to make notes… or maybe sketch in the main events of the last fifteen years. Of course if the TC postal service actually ended in 1989 this could help explain why so many invitations don’t seem to arrive. Well, thank God for e-mail.
We look forward to seeing our Turkish and Greek Cypriot guests mingling together on our lawn again this year, as has been the case for the last couple of years; something utterly unthinkable when we first arrived. This and all it signifies has been one of the profound experiences of our posting here. And if there has been an unprofound one it must surely have been the moment at last year’s QBP when one of our British guests proved in the middle of the lawn that she was wearing Union Jack knickers. This kind of loyalty to Queen and country is really what we are all about…
l This is Jane Walker’s last column as she will shortly be leaving the island
