The Queue
Five hours. That’s how long I said I was willing to wait. And with anyone I sensed was reasonably able to separate logic from emotion, we debated whether that was a justified figure for a closed casket. Crass? Yup. But these are the kinds of chats you need to have before you put your body through an extreme endurance test like the Lying-in-State Queue.
The thing is, I thought those chats were hypothetical small talk. Then I happened to be near London Bridge at 5pm on Wednesday the 14th, the official opening. People had already been queueing for days and I was curious how far it had stretched, so I made a mental calculation: If the queue went beyond London Bridge, I’d head straight home. If it was shorter, I’d walk to find the end, then see how I got on. When I arrived at ten after 5, the end of the queue was forming right in front of me.
Twenty minutes later I was standing just outside Blackfriars Bridge and 45 minutes after that I was standing… just outside Blackfriars Bridge?! After initially covering 1.2km in 20 minutes, for reasons unknown we were stopped for a full 45 minutes. I’d find out later in the evening that quite a few people had joined the queue in front of us so there was obviously some sort of steward mismanagement around the underpass. Everyone patiently waited despite being subjected to a news helicopter and what felt like hundreds of onlookers intrusively photographing us. After we started moving again I texted my mates “This is the best chance I’ll have so I’ll probably stick it out.”
All along the route we’d suffer mini-stoppages as people paused for photos of St. Paul’s, the Elizabeth Tower, Parliament, and all of the bridges. I was reminded how privileged I am to live in Zone 1 and see these regularly. The only altercation was when an older Chinese woman leapfrogging through the queue was told off by four older white women. Later in the evening I saw one of them tearfully pleading that her rather expensive eye moisturiser wasn’t a liquid she was willing to throw away, despite the stringent entry restrictions. At 8pm I found myself walking down the steps into Victoria Tower Gardens. Westminster Hall was less than half a kilometre away, and it seemed possible I’d be home for a late dinner and respectable time to bed. Oh how wrong I was!
At every hour on the hour for the next three hours I messaged my mates that I figured I’d be done in an hour, all too aware that my forecasts were becoming increasingly less trustworthy than Boris Johnson. And indeed, that’s all anyone around me was talking about. People weren’t reminiscing about the Queen, nor was anyone shedding tears or even visibly emotional about her passing. They were checking the train times and assessing whether or not they’d be stuck sleeping rough for the night.
Their fears weren’t irrational. All in all, I’d end up spending four and a half hours in the Victoria Tower Gardens zig zag queue. FOUR AND A HALF HOURS! That’s a lot of time to spend making idle small talk while you slowly wreck your knees relentlessly pacing back and forth between the chemical toilets and the hordes of broken down public slumped along the Thames Path wall. The monotony only occasionally broken by loud cries of “MEDIC!” when someone, usually very elderly, would go down. At one point a bloke told anyone who would listen that some guy had jumped over the wall into the Thames. No one believed him, but it turns out he was right.
Eventually — seven hours and forty seven minutes after I had joined the queue, to be exact — I experienced the most efficient “airport style security” I’d ever seen. It was so shockingly swift and friendly that it was a highlight of the night. I hope Heathrow management queued for the Queen. They’ll have learned a thing or two.
Inside Westminster Hall was every bit as respectfully quiet as the live feeds had led you to believe. Arguably even more so, since the experience itself focussed all of your attention on two things and two things only: the catafalque, and the need to stay dignified. With all that attention being spent towards paying your respect, you tune out just about everything else. I’ve gone back to watch the 2min and 43 seconds in which I was in the hall, and I can’t recall any of the sounds on the replay. I guess I was too busy wondering whether I’d curtesy, bow or simply nod and move along. I nodded. I’m not sure I could have done much more. There was a heavy weight in the room, an almost palpable reverence. I’d never felt so humble.
8 hours and 6 minutes after I joined the queue, I exited Westminster Hall. It was 1:16am, the Tube was shut, and extensive security road closures meant I had to walk another 1.5km to a night bus to take me home. My feet and knees weren’t happy, but at least they could finally go at their own pace. At the bus stop, a passing man that looked homeless, bruised and drunk asked me what my wrist band was for. We briefly talked about Her Majesty. He asked me why I had queued, and congratulated me with a fist bump before going on his way.
That encounter made me realise that it was the first time all night I had actually considered why I had done what I had just done. Up until that point I had been coasting on momentum and herd mentality. I certainly wanted to pay my respects, but there were many ways I could have done that without wrecking my legs. Looking back on my texts from the night it was clear I was much more interested in being able to brag that I was part of a very rare, publicly shared experience. And yet, if someone official had been at London Bridge and told me I was in for a guaranteed 8-hr queue then I would have gone straight home. Not knowing the time clearly contributed to me sticking it out, and I’m glad that I did. It was surreal, sombre and humbling. God Save the Queen.