LIFE will never seem quite as rich again after last weekend. For reasons best known to himself, the Lord Mayor of London decided to appoint me his chaplain.
The Lord Mayor is elected every year in November and spends his year in a great variety of ceremonial and civic acts to promote the work of the Corporation and the City.
It all began for me last Wednesday when I found myself lumbering sleepily towards the Guildhall at half past four in the morning to practise the procession for the Lord Mayor's Show. The early hours are the only time the traffic in the city is slack enough to permit the progress of the golden coach. Nerve-racking to say the least. On many of the ceremonial processions the chaplain has to lead the way: the order is usually chaplain at the front, followed by the mace-bearer and sword-bearer and then the Lord Mayor. I hardly slept the night before for fear that I would take the whole glittering company up the wrong alley. I thought endlessly of the saying about the blind leading the blind.
The coach is 250 years old and it certainly swings about a bit. Off we went through the wet streets, the city eerily quiet, the only sound that of the hooves of the six magnificent dray horses as they pulled the carriage. We rehearsed the inspection of the guard of honour outside the Mansion House and then off in the coach again to practise the reception of the Lord Mayor by the dean on the steps of St Paul's Cathedral.
The dean gives him a bible which he hands to his chaplain. This is another bit when things could go badly wrong. How do you keep hold of the book when you're in and out of the swaying coach - a procedure that takes all your presence of mind and both hands to keep your balance and to avoid tripping over your clothes?
Clothes - I should have mentioned these at the start. Official instructions say the chaplain has to wear buckled shoes, cassock, scarf and gown; and besides all this he has to carry a three-cornered hat. The sensation is of being just a tiny bit overdressed. It was cold, it was damp, it was dark and the pavements were slippery.
Well, I survived without serious mishap and thought about making my way home. The sword-bearer said: "Oh no, you don't go home. The chaplain comes with us to the Butchers' Hall for breakfast." The butchers are one of the most ancient of the City Livery Companies and are known for their hospitality: fruit, followed by porridge so thick it would seal the leak in our church roof, and then eggs and bacon, sausage, tomato and kidney. It's a wonder, as they say, that I had room for the toast and marmalade.
Come Saturday and I was ready well, half-ready, for the real thing. It was thrilling to stand outside Mansion House for the Lord Mayor's Show and watch all the floats going past: soldiers, sailors and airmen and plenty of stirring military bands; but also floats laden with dancing children, charitable organisations and commercial companies.
Into the coach again and, as we trundled along the city's ancient and famous thoroughfares, the Lord Mayor leaned out of the window, grinned and doffed his frilly hat to the crowds. Most impressive of all was the cheerfulness of the crowds. Every inch of pavement taken. Many watching from the upper floors of offices and shops. Busloads of pensioners from the East End and the outer suburbs. I talked to some of them and they all said the same: "We come every year. It's the greatest show on earth."
Lunch. The Law Courts. Fireworks over the Thames. It goes on all day and half the night. Some people scoff at pageantry as a waste of time and money - something which has no place in our modernised, egalitarian times. All I would say to them is: "You try telling the crowds that." They knew what they were there for: they were celebrating their great history, their city and themselves.
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