Here in the United Kingdom, it is a special weekend.
You see it is Queen Elizabeth II's Diamond Jubilee, celebrating her sixty-years sitting on the throne. It is quite the occasion and numerous street parties and other celebrations will take place around the country.
It also marked the perfect timing for my parents to host a family party. We haven't held one in a while and despite the cost, time and effort of hosting a party, they tried to justify it as being a jubilee/belated birthday party/I'm home from university celebration. Quite possibly, that is the only time those three reasons will ever be merged together to give reason for hosting a party.
Sunday rolled around and the first guests arrived in punctual fashion, it was my aunt, uncle and cousins. It was the first time they had been on time, though one can assume that the lure of alcohol got them to our house on time, a classic trait of Irish people.
Soon the numbers swelled and a few of us nestled down in front of the television to watch the flotilla. It made for fascinating viewing, though I do think the alcohol definitely helped numb the borefest that it apparently was judging by the negative comments in today's papers about the coverage.
After a few hours, my sister's boyfriend, Terry, challenged me to a game of chess. I considered this a rookie error, an unwise move.
You see, I once reached the finals of the Surrey Chess Championships. I won two out of my six games in that competition after qualifying through borough matches and I felt proud to have been one of the best under-11 chess players in all of Surrey.
After an encouraging start, Terry was winning and after some skilful play, he had my King in checkmate. Disaster.
"Beginners luck!" I protested.
He subsequently won his next few matches whilst I lost to my eleven-year-old cousin.
OK, I used to be good at chess.
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