On the day of the coronation, I went to my local park. I did not notice any excitement amongst the ducks.
The fog was hanging low, suffocating spring.
The grass was wet and shiny. Little drops of water did not want to fall onto the ground, and I had to help them. Only then they decided to disappear into the royal soil.
One squirrel I met was busy digging something up.
The dead pigeon I noticed a day earlier was gone. Perhaps digested already.
Continuing my walk, I went up the road by our small shopping centre. There were only a few cars. KFC smelled old vegetable oil and chicken pieces.
The housing estate I passed on my way to the Royal Mile was still asleep. I wondered if anyone there was dreaming about Charles. While travelling in Australia, I once had a puppet named Charles, after Charles Bukowski — a giant purple thing with lots of hair. I got it from my friends. Charles the King doesn’t resemble him.
The next was the church the Royals used to like for their weddings and shenanigans. This time it looked like a werewolf’s jaw with teeth made of Union Jacks. Ready to devour.
I was surprised by the size of the crowd of people in the Princes Street gardens. There were few. A girl approached me and handed over a million Pound bill. On the front, there was Charles. On the back, there was a message for me from Jesus. Her dad handed me a booklet. Charles feat. Jesus. God save the King.
The rest of the people just gazed. It didn’t look like they anticipated anything, so I went for a pee.
I felt funny urinating, with the sounds of the coronation coming from behind the wall. I came back and noticed that some children held flags. A few adults wore Union Jack helmets. Most just stared at the screen with intense focus. Charles started reading things from a paper.
He didn’t look like the kings I know from books or the Game of Thrones. He was a very 21st-century-looking king, pixelated and wrinkly. Photographers were walking around, trying to take good photographs, but it’s hard when everyone stares into a giant screen with a pixelated, old man on it.
When the three cannons announced the crowning, Charles looked at the gathered people and thought of his family’s land in the North. And also deer hunting in Balmoral. Perhaps he smiled.
After the coronation, the crowd dispersed quickly.
The circus was over, and pigeons came to scoop up the remaining breadcrumbs.
Some punters joined me for pho soup at a local Vietnamese restaurant. I noticed a Union Jack hat packed into a Lidl bag.
The beef brisket in the soup was most delicious.
I strolled back home. The mist was gone.
