Bright Lights: Stories I Wrote For Prompts & Contests

HF Smackdown: Round 1.3

London
9th August 1902
Dear Journal,
It's a pity the nations' delegations weren't here today, for Edward the VII's coronation was much improved by its remarkable hilarity.
I had expected a long, awe-inspiring ceremony, but never did I expect such comedy!
I sat in one of the pews beside some old minister, who insisted on telling me that Frederick Bridge had been aided by some Walter Parratt in arranging the music. "It's going to be a wonderful ceremony," the minister told me loudly. "They've decided to play English music with songs from the last four-hundred years. At the last coronation in 1838, you know, the music was a mess because of the organist - he tried to play and conduct a choir at the same time! Fool. But what about Portugal? What kind of traditions do you practice there?"
I shrugged, but before I could answer, the minister had continued talking. "I went to Lisbon once. It was a wonderful privilege, although I can't say I think much of your music; it is so rather-"
I stopped listening.
The music began. I watched the choir opposite me, singing with a beautiful pitch and melody, their lilting voices echoing throughout the abbey. There were said to be 430 souls singing up there, and all around, there were ministers and ambassadors leaning forwards to see them. How excited - and nervous - those wonderful singers must have felt!
Well. The ceremony began, and it was spoken in beautiful, precise English. My housewife, Lydia, makes fun of my 'infatuation for grammar' but I simply could not help it: I leaned forwards with a certain fascination.
The minister snorted, watching me with eyes that said, "Sit straight!" and I did so. I was my country's representative - no slacking permitted.
But when Archbishop Temple, an old but stubborn man, took out what the minister called 'prompt scrolls', I had to hunch over to stop myself from laughing.
"He's lost his eyesight, poor man," I thought I heard the minister say. "No wonder he needs big lettering - the poor man can't read." And from there, the coronation only ever got better. Archbishop Temple looked a respectable man in his fine robes and tall, triangular hat. Yet he proceeded to put the crown the wrong way around on King Edward's stately head, and when he'd payed the King homage by bending down on two knees, he could not get up again.
The King, his face the very picture of concern, got up and hauled the poor man to his feet, with help of two Bishops on stand-by. Why they'd let this man do the ceremony, I had no idea, but I felt pity stir in the pit of my stomach. Pity, which was dispelled by another (shameful) bout of silent laughter when a young man, perhaps in his twenties, approached the Archbishop near the end.
I thought he must have said something along the lines of, "Are you alright?"
A second later, the Archbishop's furious, loud voice ordered, "Go away," to the amusement of the foreigners and the shame-facedness of the British. The King himself looked as if he was trying to look concerned - and failing miserably. I grinned. The minister placed a hand over his eyes - a good thing too, for otherwise the talk of the politicians might have been the disrespect of one comedy-inclined, Portuguese ambassador.
The coronation of Alexandra, however, was much less eventful - although it was an event in itself. The Queen looked simply splendid in that new crown, complete with the Koh-i-Noor diamond!
But now the candles burn low, and I must surrender to sleep.
So good night from
The Portuguese Ambassador
(Isn't that a wonderful title?)