Remembering the time I met the Queen
<p><em><strong>Christine Osborne, 75, is a freelance travel writer and photojournalist. In 2013, she self-published </strong></em><strong>Travels with My Hat: a lifetime on the road</strong><em><strong>, an account of working as a single woman in some of the world’s most off-beat destinations including Yemen, Iraq and Pakistan.</strong></em></p>
<p><img width="205" height="219" src="https://oversixtydev.blob.core.windows.net/media/22141/cbosborne-at-home-blue-mountains_205x219.jpg" alt="CBOsborne At Home , Blue Mountains" style="float: left;"/>A visitor to the Arab States of the Gulf since the early seventies, in 1977 Christine had published in UK a book on the changing lifestyles of the Bedouin resulting from their new oil wealth. When Buckingham Palace announced that Her Majesty and Prince Phillip were to visit the region in 1979, Christine was commissioned to cover the 19 day tour by then <em>Australian Women’s Weekly</em> editor Ita Buttrose.</p>
<p>Below is an excerpt from the chapter <em>Member of the Royal Press Corps.</em> Scroll through the gallery above to see a few photos Christine took of Her Majesty while covering the royal tour. </p>
<p align="center">***</p>
<p>The Queen of England’s whirlwind tour of the Arab States was seen in the context of a colossal public relations exercise to promote British technical expertise in a region hungry for everything under the sun. British companies had laid a sound infrastructure in the desert sheikhdoms, building ports, airports, and dry docks; Sir William Halcrow, Sir Alfred McAlpine and George Wimpey were household names. Kuwait was to be Her Majesty’s first impression of the Arab world. Indeed, never before had a reigning British monarch set foot in Arabia Deserta.</p>
<p>Having left London in a blizzard, the gleaming white Concorde glided down in Kuwait like a migrating snowbird. Waiting to receive Her Majesty was the Emir, Sheikh Jabar al-Ahmad as-Sabah, a slightly built man with a sharp black beard. He wore the white ankle-length dishdasha (gown) covered by a bisht (black cloak) and Arab headdress worn to great effect by Peter O’Toole in the film Lawrence of Arabia.</p>
<p>Until this moment the <em>Daily Telegraph</em> reporter Ann Morrow had not acknowledged my presence, but as the queen descended the aircraft steps dressed in an elegant apricot silk ensemble, Ann nudged me.</p>
<p>“What’s that gear the Arabs are wearing?” she said.</p>
<p>I explained about the d-i-s-h-d-a-s-h-a, carefully spelling out the word. Then, with no knowledge of millinery, I asked how to describe Her Majesty’s hat.</p>
<p>“Who are you and who do you work for?” she retorted before stalking off in pursuit of the other journalists.</p>
<p>At the palace briefing, Shea had informed us there was no requirement for formal dress, but since Her Majesty would receive us following the state banquet, I felt it necessary to show some sartorial respect. Scouring London boutiques, I’d settled on a long, blue Grecian-style gown which was glamorous, but sufficiently covered up so as not to offend our conservative Kuwaiti hosts. None of the seasoned women journalists had bothered to dress. Having met the queen on numerous royal tours, most were blasé about the occasion, and waiting in line on the deck of Britannia, I stood out like a sore thumb.</p>
<p>Wearing a silver gown, a diamond-and-emerald tiara with matching earrings the size of quail’s eggs, Her Majesty looked every inch Queen of Great Britain and the Commonwealth. When she extended her hand, her twinkling blue eyes indicated I had done the right thing by my wardrobe— a small acknowledgement of her status, perhaps.</p>
<p>“You’re Australian? And you’ve written a book about the Gulf, so you must know all about it,” she addressed me.</p>
<p>“Yes Ma’am. How did you enjoy the Arab food?” I inquired politely of the state dinner.</p>
<p>“Oh, it was lovely, but I had barely started to eat when everyone got up to leave,” she smiled.</p>
<p>“You’re bound to get sick of all the coffee Ma’am,” I wittered on. “Qahwa is not like Turkish coffee. It’s made with tea leaves and cardamom husks and is rather bitter to taste. One is expected to drink at least two or three cups at every meeting.”</p>
<p>“Oh, we had some this evening. It was rather strange,” said Her Majesty, and reputed for an excellent memory, she would recall this brief conversation later in Saudi Arabia.</p>
<p align="center">***</p>
<p><em>Week two found us in Abu Dhabi, capital of the United Arab Emirates (or Trucial States, as they were once known).</em></p>
<p class="Standard">Seated bolt upright on a faux-Louis XV sofa, Her Majesty stared straight ahead. On either side of her, the duchess and Lady Susan looked concerned by the delay and across the room, the embassy wives were clearly terrified. Scattered around the palace majlis (audience room) even the women journalists seemed uncomfortable, but to me it was typical that the harem could not keep an appointment and sensing I should take the initiative, I slipped outside to inquire of the problem.</p>
<p>“Someone has given a wrong message. Her Highness Sheikha Fatima [the ruler’s wife] is late. Yes, the queen must wait,” said her secretary Hayat flashing past. “Perhaps she go to the bathroom.”</p>
<p>“The Queen of England is not going anywhere,” I told her crossly. “What’s more, no one keeps Her Majesty waiting.” And glancing into the majlis, I observed the queen was drumming white-gloved fingers on the back of the sofa. </p>
<p>Fifteen minutes late, Sheikha Fatima and her entourage drew up in a fleet of Cadillacs and when they were seated, servants carried in censers of smoking frankincense which we waved under our armpits. All except for Her Majesty who swatted at it like a wasp as seated on her right, Hayat began interpreting the conversation.</p>
<p>“Yes, Anne no longer lives at home, she is grown up and married now,” I heard the queen say. Then casually and with a deadpan expression, she enquired of the sheikha: “Do you go to London often?”</p>
<p>“Yes”, replied Hayat on her behalf. “We have a house in Bolton Gardensand a Scottish estate”.</p>
<p>It was now time to exchange gifts, a sensitive matter since the munificence of the Arabs was overwhelming. “I’m afraid this is rather small,” muttered Her Majesty handing over a signed photograph of herself. </p>
<p>Suddenly a large unveiled woman wearing a shocking pink gown appeared brandishing a Polaroid camera.</p>
<p>“You don’t mind?” enquired Hayat of the queen, who looking mildly surprised, said she understood the sheikha did not allow her picture taken.</p>
<p>“It’s for the family album,” she was told.</p>
<p>Angry at this favouritism, I motioned to Lady Susan that I too should be allowed to take a photograph and Her Majesty, clearly aware of the situation, gave me an almost imperceptible nod of royal assent.</p>
<p>I felt like Virginia Wade winning Wimbledon. What a scoop. But as I had raised my camera to take a picture, two female security guards pounced.</p>
<p>“La sura!” said one grabbing the camera and the other my wrists.</p>
<p>Disappointed, but hardly surprised, I returned to my seat just as the woman pulled the picture out of the Polaroid. It was completely black. Something was wrong with her camera.</p>
<p>“How very strange,” said the queen, looking at the picture and standing to leave…</p>
<p><em>For more information about Christine Osborne please visit her <a href="http://www.travelswithmyhat.com" target="_blank"><strong><span style="text-decoration: underline;">website here.</span></strong></a> To purchase Travels with My Hat: A lifetime on the road, <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Travels-My-Hat-Christine-Osborne/dp/0992324025" target="_blank">click here.</a></strong></span> </em></p>
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