In honour of the Royal Wedding (yes, I’m still talking about it), I thought it time to regale you with the time I met the closest person in Australia to Royalty. No not Bert Newton. I am talking about Quentin Bryce, not C-List television Royalty.
I love her. There is no other way to go about it. Maybe it’s the fact I’m some strange male-feminist hybrid, or it is admiration for all that she has achieved in her life and career whilst raising a family, which in my opinion is nothing short of extraordinary, or it is her style and class. I don’t know.
It was December last year and I was wallowing in self pity as a) I was at work, b) work was retail at Christmas time and c) my friend Liz wasn’t there to sing songs from Wicked with me. The day was passing uneventfully with absolutely no excitement; on looking back I see this was the calm before the storm.
Like the people I wrote about spotting earlier this week, Quentin Bryce’s graceful turn about the selling floor led to some tension in my chest, loss of linguistic ability and the loss on connection between my airways, lungs and brain.
I started her trip by staring in disbelief. Could it really be her? Yes, yes it was. I then moved on to skulking about the floor to tell people she was about. I finished off her trip by alarming her security detail by my crazy stalker-esque antics and my struggling to breathe.
This would embarrass most people, not me. She is a truly wonderful woman. I believe that one glance at Quentin Bryce would convince the most hardened republican that the monarchy is a good thing…if only for having the role of Governor General.
So after a twenty-minute tour of the selling floor, Her Excellency was away. Her Christmas shopping complete and my lungs back to functioning in a normal manner…I think I have anxiety issues.
Long live the Queen, but more importantly, long live Quentin.
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