There was universal shock at the news that HRH The Prince of Wales had tested positive for Coronavirus, forcing the Heir Apparent into self-isolation. With the diagnosis came the stark reality that both the Queen and her Heir were unable to physically lead the country through the greatest pandemic its ever faced. And whilst Her Majesty is scheduled to record an address to the Nation – only the fourth time in her long reign – her founding sentiments of duty and leadership must now skip a generation, landing on the shoulders of her grandson and second-in-line to the Throne, Prince William.
“It’s a masterpiece!” My film buff friend exclaimed with a face of pure indignation. “How can you not like it?” he asked utterly perplexed.
It is amazing what you can remember as a child. Whether it be the first time you watched your favourite movie or heard your favourite song. What is even more amazing, is how innocent the memory seemed. You never paid attention to what was happening in the movie, or what the lyrics said, you innocently enjoyed the moment.
Does a song need lyrics, a melodic symphony of words poetically entwined together to invoke a stir of the emotions? I always thought so. Without the librettos, a song was ‘boring’, without flavour or feeling. It wasn’t cool. For far too long I navigated the music world with this outlook – until the dramatic, emotive and encapsulating sounds of Hans Zimmer punctured what musical ignorance I had left.
Even towards the end she was mocked.
There were signs all around me. They had been there silently, muted by the modern world which had grown and evolved around them. Simple crosses embellished on stone tiles, built into the quaint exteriors of the cottages which had stood for centuries. An old manor house which garnered no attention as you drove on by. A medieval church – one which I had seen its tower rise high behind the rows of modern houses for 28 years – yet never fully taken notice of. And finally, a majestic Tudor mansion whose presence had dominated the landscape for hundreds of years. This village of Whitkirk, which I had always called home, that I had always arrogantly deemed mundane, was anything but.