“Why?” and “when?” Alternating between knowing approval and blank incomprehension, my friends reacted to my decision to attend the late Queen Elizabeth’s lying-in-state, to join the queue which has already become (depending on whom you asked) the epitome of Britishness or the symbol of servility. The urge to honour one’s chieftain is not one that can be explained in so many words, much less wished away. My companion and I left for London on Friday even though the government had announced that the queue had been temporarily closed as it had become full.

That announcement turned out to be a white lie. On our arrival in Bermondsey Park, we joined an unadvertised, yet undeniably official pre-queue, marshalled by good-humoured staff who cheered us on, as if we were contestants in a charity race. Few said much about the Queen, but everyone was there for one reason and one reason only, so that it seemed superfluous to do so.

The queuers came in all shapes and forms. Some carried babies on their chests; some wore chestfuls of medals. Most complained about the length queue or, as the walking continued ceaselessly, about aching feet and legs. Television cameras plucked out queuers for vox pops; elsewhere we gossiped about the horrendous official estimates of our waiting time or sightings of football stars. In the queue there were retirees and there were chief ministers of the new King. Before our liege lady, all other differentials of rank are rendered insignificant.

We stood, bowed, curtsied, saluted and slowly filed out

After two hours or so in the park, we made our way out, with a warning of even more extravagant queuing times. Yet nobody left. Outside, we traversed the labyrinth of wharves which once formed the basis of a great mercantile empire, walked past a survivor of a fleet which once boasted thousands of ships, and saw the gently gleaming brilliant dome of St Paul’s. We followed the liquid history of the Thames, felt the cold breeze which travelled with it, and huddled together for warmth. Names and things ordinarily overlooked became salient, as we became acclimatised to our ever-changing surroundings.

Conversation became more infrequent, but the marching became more purposeful and determined than ever. Friends who could not make the entire journey came and provided us with food and company. As night fell, queuers exchanged snacks and jokes, and offered mutual words of encouragement. People left for coffee or bathroom breaks, and then seamlessly re-joined their previous position.

After crossing Westminster Bridge and enduring another few hours of walking between zigzag lines, we arrived at our destination. In the great hall built by William Rufus, under the roof erected by Richard the Second, lay the mortal remains of their kinswoman, the High and Mighty Princess Elizabeth Alexandra Mary, Queen of her many realms, the diminutive great-grandmother and descendent of Norman warlords and German magnates, whose family, in a line almost unbroken, have governed this kingdom for ten centuries. Her forebears would have been surprised to learn that she held her crown not by feat of arms, but by affection and mutuality of consent.

She was flanked by her household troops and surrounded by her many subjects who came to attend on their liege lady one last time. Her casket was surmounted by the symbols of sovereignty — the crown, orb and sceptre — normally so imposing and splendid. Under the soft lighting and gentle warmth of Westminster Hall, they seemed so light and homely. We stood, bowed, curtsied, saluted and slowly filed out of the Hall, glancing back at the catafalque which slowly receded from view, as new mourners took our place.