Back in a whole new Britain
A few days in bright and hot California made my return to Britain very pleasant. No longer would I have to put on sunscreen just to go outside, nor would I have to strategise how to stay in the shade on my walks. It occurs to me, however, that for a country that constantly has to deal with rain, the UK does not do so very well. My bus to Oxford was delayed by a quarter of an hour, and it arrived at least half an hour later than it should have. It reminded me of my arrival in Oxford two months ago, when major delays had been caused by a heatwave. Clearly, the dysfunctionality of UK traffic is chronic, and the weather is just an excuse. Whether it be heat, rain, or snow, there is always some (usually only slightly) inclement weather condition that throws a wrench into theoretically perfect timetables.
I had only
just arrived at my short-stay apartment in Oxford when I registered some
rumblings on my social media. The Queen had apparently had a health scare and
the entire royal family was gathering at Balmoral. Although similar stories had
made the headlines in the past, this one seemed more serious. I turned on the
TV just in case I might miss something important.
I can
hardly forget my confusion when, after emerging from the shower, I heard the
newscasters talk of the Queen in the past tense. Were they still talking of
hypothetical scenarios, or had this long-theorised event actually happened? The
reality slowly settled in when I first heard the name Charles III be uttered.
I do not
think future historians and history students will quite understand the power of
this moment. There are few people alive who grew up before the "Second
Elizabethan Era" and even fewer who remember it. When the Queen died, it seemed
as though everything else had been put on hold. Many took to social media to post
their condolences, others shared ironic memes, but everyone’s life converged on
that one single event. The Queen (and it was never necessary to even specify
her name) was synonymous with the British monarchy. One by one, outlandish
realisations started to surface: her face would be replaced on banknotes and
coins, there would never be more new stamps with her face on it, and the
national anthem would become "God save the king." Even for people like me, who
are generally apathetic towards monarchies, this seemed fantastical. The
certainty moored by these details of daily life, which tend to change gradually
and imperceptibly, was turned upside down in a single evening.
I spent my ten September days in Oxford shuttling back and forth between a little apartment on Abingdon Road and Saint Antony's main library. I suppose I could have picked a closer library to work on my thesis, but not all libraries practically guarantee solitude outside term times. These few days also offered me the opportunity to continue exploring the colleges of Oxford, an opportunity that alas, I only took up once. It just so happened that the day I did so coincided with Oxford's open days; I do not think this facilitated or impeded my entry anywhere, though it led to an uptick in the number of buntings in my pictures.
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