Losing Track of Time

LOSING TRACK OF TIME

I folded the paper and looked at the wall. It was littered with pictures of her. Pictures of the Queen. I’d been collecting them since 1953, her Coronation. What a day that’d been.

They’d all crammed into Auntie Beattie’s sitting room – all of them, all the kids, aunts, uncles, the neighbours, the lot. Televisions were expensive and hard to come by then.

Auntie Beattie’s bloke was called Arthur – she wanted to call him Uncle, but he was a sarcastic prick. A rich, sarcastic prick.

‘How’s your girl, Lucy?’

My girlfriend wasn’t Lucy – she was Lottie. I told him.

‘Nah, the boys ‘round your bit definitely called her Lucy. Loose Elastic.’

That got a rise out of everyone. I forced a smile and pushed out through the front door.

I wasn’t missing much. The Princess had only turned onto the Mall in her golden carriage. How’s that for a ride? I couldn’t afford a car.

But Arthur could.

Arthur did.

A red sporty model, looked like something they’d race around a track. Prick, calling Lottie loose. I’ll show him.

Through the windows, I could see them – glued to that little box. I opened the driver’s door and slipped inside. It was beautiful. Covered in leather so rich it reminded me of Dad’s boot polish.

Let’s not crash this fucking car.

But I did, I wrapped it ‘round a lamppost. They banged me up for that. I kept re-offending. God, how time flies? Now I’m an old git and that’s it.

That’s my last picture. The Telegraph – "Queen Elizabeth II dies aged 96 at Balmoral".

What a waste.