So I’m standing in the kitchen with my mother and the BBC suddenly switches over to report on the Queen Mother finally kicking the bucket. And we’re both drawn towards the TV for a moment, and the atmosphere suddenly becomes slightly tense – like when you hear a friend on the phone and it’s suddenly obvious that something bad has happened at the other end of the line because your friend’s mood has suddenly changed from face-making to actually interested and worried. And then I say, “About bloody time, frankly!” And my mother bursts out laughing and then looks suddenly serious and then says “I hope that doesn’t mean they’ll cancel Casualty….” I mean come on – the woman’s only been alive this long because she drained 2/3rds of the revenue of the National Health service and because they fed her the blood of teenage virgins mixed with gin four times a day.
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