It’s the former prime minister Margaret Thatcher’s funeral at St Paul’s Cathedral on Wednesday, and the barricades and makeshift TV studios are up and ready. My cycle route to work, which passes close to the cathedral, will be diverted tomorrow because of road and bridge closures. As I stopped to draw these coming home today (astride the bike, helmet still on) there was already a sense of anticipation in the air.
I was absolutely and totally no fan of Thatcher, for reasons that I don’t have time to include here. I happened to be with a handful of people by the gates of Downing Street late one night in November 1990 when she was driven home to her growing leadership crisis: I still like to think my shout of “resign!” as she passed by played some small part in her decision to stand down the next morning.
But there’s no sense of celebration at her death: she died a rather sad figure, shallow without power. My own parents are too elderly for me to consider anyone’s death something to be cheered by. The streets around the cathedral will certainly contain protesters, not least against the expense of the ceremony, but I hope that the funeral and procession will pass peacefully, however much she was disliked by many.
