Like periscoped sheep, the palace hordes startled back and forth, lunging the gates, devices bobbing – flopping above the fray into which they all tumbled. They scuffled to meet, but mostly just to prove–their–meeting–of, the new King.
By chance, I had been working in Wiltshire the day before Queen Elizabeth II’s passing. Mid–conference, when news of Her Majesty’s death broke, my first observation was that – save for some wise and dignified remarks from the boss, and the diligent contributions of some well–steeled Brits – no one quite knew what to do.
At dinner that evening – we were being hosted at an old...
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