This was the first time the new King met Parliament, when the Lords and Commons extended their sympathies and pledged their loyalty - returned by His Majesty with a solemn vow to defend the constitutional order.
What you didn’t see on TV was that before we got started, a doorman gave us a “quick security notice”. Exits are there and there; if you feel sick, let us know. And the most important thing: “Enjoy yerselves!”
It was deliciously inappropriate and would’ve earned sacks of complaints from viewers - but you’ll never know it happened because the BBC was busy interviewing Gyles Brandreth. Dear Gyles. He's been on the telly so much in the past week that many young children probably think he’s the king...
This was a moment to be in the room, in this extraordinary, ancient building with a carved roof commissioned in 1393.
Above us, we were watched over by a choir of wooden angels.
This was where politicians put Charles I on trial - before deciding a republic was a terrible idea after all (they dug up Cromwell’s head and stuck it on a spike outside, thus inventing the U-turn). Today, monarchy is democracy’s honoured guest. On the steps at the south side, two rose and gold chairs stood empty for Charles and Camilla, flanked by Yeomen of the Guard, with intimidating halberds, and Gentlemen at Arms wearing swan feather helmets (the former march about, the latter almost trot, as if riding an invisible horse).
The household cavalry played the Eriskay Love Lilt and David of the White Rock.
At their feet spanned a sea of blue seats, filling up with Lords and MPs - sad but buzzing because we’re in an odd moment between mourning a queen and cheering a king, a bit of history that even Republicans can’t resist. Jeremy Corbyn came. He wore the standard uniform of black suit, black tie. I counted few tails on the men, but many ladies wore pillboxes and fascinators.
Boris Johnson was hidden behind Theresa May’s hat. Its brim was as wide as the rings of Saturn, and every time Theresa turned away from her successor, which seemed to be all the time, the poor man was eclipsed in darkness.
Boris looked tired. Liz Truss looked terrified. It’s bad enough having to invent an energy policy in seven days; she’s also had to learn how to curtsey, and the tension shows in that same, strained gait that Mrs May used to get, one that suggests that in the mad panic of running this chaotic country, she’s worried that she might have forgotten how to walk.
Well, no one was watching. For once, the politicians were spectators to something bigger and longer-lasting than themselves - the monarchy, yes, but also Parliament as an institution, represented by the Speakers of the Lords and Commons in gowns of black and gold. No wigs, alas. Bercow got rid of them: a mistake because they do add height. He must’ve been missing this spectacle dearly, though I’m sure he was commentating on television somewhere, yelling “Orderrr!” at a confused but respectful audience of Japanese viewers.
A fanfare sounded. Charles III was at the North Door.
He walked gravely up the aisle, took his seat next to the Queen Consort, and listened to humble addresses from the two Speakers. Both were very good. Both, significantly, are Labour men - the peer, Scottish, the MP, from Chorley, a reminder of the patriotic socialist tradition. Lord McFall paid tribute to the late Queen as a “leader” and “servant of her people”, who showed “humour, courage, fortitude”.
“The loss is felt around the world,” continued Sir Lindsay Hoyle. He pointed out that Queen Elizabeth had spoken in the Hall to mark many “historic moments”, including the 300th anniversary of the revolutions of 1688 to 1689, adding that it was “very British to celebrate revolutions by presenting an address to Her Majesty”.
The Hall laughed; the King smiled. But of course, 1688 was when authority shifted decisively from the Crown to Parliament, and though we disguise this with pomp and ceremony, the monarchy has politely accepted its limits. In Britain today, there is literal power - the power to pass laws, cause wars and meddle in your life - and there is spiritual power, of the sort exercised rather more subtly by Elizabeth II.
Charles rose to his feet. Quoting Shakespeare, he said his mother had been a “pattern to all princes living”, and that her memory is stamped all over Parliament - from fountains to sundials, to the Elizabeth Tower. She had pledged “to maintain the precious principles of constitutional government”: Charles, you’ll be relieved to hear, is “resolved” to do the same.
Once this exchange of loyalties was concluded, once both sides were satisfied with the legitimacy of the other, the audience rose to its feet to sing God Save the King - with only the odd slip-back to “send her victorious”, understandable given that we’ve been singing it one way for seventy years.
The King’s eyes looked red. I really think he was moved.
His Majesty left the way he came, though this time his walk was closer to his usual self - never a march, nor a sweep, but an amiable stroll - suggesting that the weight of what must be done had lifted a little, and he nodded to those he passed with the kind of egalitarian familiarity only a royal can pull off. Study this man, you politicians. He has much to teach you.
Behind him, followed Ms Truss, muttering to herself: "Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot..."
Our amiable King Charles III has much to teach politicians about egalitarianism
As he addressed Parliament at Westminster Hall, MPs and peers were spectators to something bigger and longer-lasting than themselves