A hallowed and harrowed week

Joy exists both in the worst of the world and within the best

A King’s Pledge

There was not a galaxy of coronets at this coronation but there was symbolism, pageantry and prayer. This ceremony might not have defined Britain as perhaps the Queen’s did, and possibly rightly so, but we feasted our eyes on Royal ladies magnificently gowned, with the lady Lord President of the Council, unflinching with that Sword of State, the Queens of Bhutan and Thailand breathtakingly beautiful in traditional dress, as Zadok the Priest rang to the rafters in a sacred ceremony between a monarch and the people, in the presence of God, in an Abbey that has hosted this ceremony since 1066. But this time, for the first time, represented by multiple faiths, cultures, and communities from across our United Kingdom. And The King’s pledge of service establishing this modern monarchy.

It was a privilege for me to watch history unfold as part of several television teams covering the coronation, warm in the bright sunshine of those camera lights as marching bands with pomp and precision passed behind, and the dazzling Golden State Carriage, a living part of British history, rolled into the courtyard of Buckingham Palace as the Royal Standard soared above, un-dampened by the drizzle.

It was in vast contrast that I found myself the same evening standing with several thousand people watching Post Malone, the American rapper and songwriter, performing on stage, who belying his aggressive face tattoos was humble, charming and captivating.

On Sunday my mother, my daughter and I went to The Lord Nelson, our little local pub, littered with bunting and coronation congratulations. Here my mother told us about going on the Commonwealth tour with the Queen’s Coronation dress. When we returned home I searched that muniment room for a picture and persuaded her to retell the story, recorded now for this Mother’s Day.

Monday began with the launch of my Recess pickle paddles for pickleball. What is pickleball? I was asked across London. Sort of imagine if tennis and ping pong had a baby and that baby had a sense of humor. That's pickleball.

The rest of the week unfolded into a series of design meetings in varying design studios, moving one son into a new apartment and checking my daughter was remembering to eat her vegetables “Don’t worry Mum, I just had a fruit roll up.

Highlight

An unexpected highlight was listening to Jenny Saville, the British artist, known for her large scale oil paintings of fleshy female figures talking about her deep fascination with the extremities of anatomy.

She said it was only when she got to art school that she realised that the great artists of the past were not women. Where are all the women? Only then, as the truth dawned, did she start to feel pissed off. “When I graduated I would have been hard pressed to think of a single woman who showed in a museum, and now women are directors, curators…" But her voice trails off. Perhaps because the unavoidable truth is that there are still relatively few women artists who are deemed worthy of museum exhibitions. Women artists around the world still face such disparities.

I was invited to a fundraising dinner, for Brainwaves, a global health and wellbeing initiative for young people, created by the department of psychiatry at Oxford University. There were stunning speeches delivering the message that shameful statistics show a mental health crisis, that is spiraling out of control, as demand far outweighs capacity.

Hearts and Lives

As I left dinner I received the message that Heather Armstrong had taken her life. Heather blazed a trail into women’s hearts and lives. Smart and funny, honest and vulnerable, she cast delight among us.

What a hallowed and harrowed week. As Nick Cave reminds us ‘Joy exists both in the worst of the world and within the best, and that joy, flighty, jumpy, startling thing that it is, often finds its true voice within its opposite’