No oysters for the Queen: A Victoria Day reflection

KneeBraceVictoriaDayIt’s Victoria Day in Canada, a national holiday. As comedy troupe The Irrelevant Show said, it’s “Canadians’ favourite holiday devoted to Victorian oppression and yard work.”

For those readers in warmer climes, the Victoria Day long weekend is traditionally the time to plant your garden. It’s the earliest time in the year in most of the country when we can be reasonably sure that frost won’t kill our new plants overnight.

But this year is different, at least for me, in a couple of respects.

First, we’re not really sure that we’re out of the frost season yet.

Second, I personally am not doing any yard work this spring. As readers of last week’s blog will remember, I completely tore my quadriceps tendon out of my knee last week. So I won’t be able to do any yard work. (I do not recommend this as a strategy for getting out of any work, yard or otherwise. It hurts, and with the painkillers I am on, I can’t drink any alcohol.) No digging in the soil. No spreading topsoil. No fussing over unreasonably demanding flowers. No shovelling manure.

Instead, I watched my two mighty sons, Evan the Blond Ravin’ and Super Nicolas do the work I normally do: shlepping bags of topsoil and manure, turning over soil, cutting back that bush with the purple flowers that spreads every season and transplanting parts of it to other areas in the yard, digging holes, planting annuals, etc, all under the wise supervision of my wife. I sat on a lawn chair, injured leg propped up, drinking water (remember, no booze) and watching, offering the occasional tip on best use of a spade or something highly technical like that. I’m good with that kind of specialized knowledge.

So, what do to do to mark this special Victoria Day Long Weekend? I thought it would be interesting to share something else royal with you.

A couple of years ago, when I was cleaning out my parents-in-laws’ old house, I found a clipping from the old Weekend magazine. Remember the Saturday supplement delivered with so many different newspapers across Canada? Most of the time it was pretty bland, but it did occasionally print some interesting and even controversial articles.

This isn’t controversial, but it is ironic and funny. And on a day special even for being named for a dead royal, Day, I thought you might enjoy an advice column from another time.

No Oysters For The Queen

Image by Jules Morgan, Montreal. Licensed under Creative Commons.

Weekend Magazine, February 10, 1973

After reading Robert McKeown’s article, I quietly gave thanks that I live a simple life.

Not hat I didn’t enjoy the article. I did. I love reading about the high and the mighty and how they complicate their lives with all kinds of rules and traditions.

And that is what the article is all about. Protocol. Who sits next to whom. Who gets first crack at the cold lobster and why the wife of a junior diplomat is not allowed to sit on the right hand side of a sofa.

I’m not kidding. Protocol, as played in the nations’ capitals, specifically states, “The right side of the sofa is considered the seat of honour and should not be occupied by a junior wife . . . unless specifically invited to do so.”

This handbook for the striped-pants set does have its aids, however. For instance, if you have ever considered inviting a man from a country where polygamy is practiced, but were hesitating because you aren’t sure you can put up a husband and a half-dozen wives, rest easy.

It is perfectly proper, or so says international protocol, to invite this man with the proviso that he bring only one wife.

Once he and his one wife arrive, however, I guess you are on your own. Nowhere can I find instructions as to how you are supposed to ask after the health and well-being of his other wives. I mean, does one just smile brightly and say, “So nice to see Lois again — but tell me, how are Joan and Anita and Susan and Valerie and Patricia?”

Another useful bit of information I would like to pass along is that Queen Elizabeth does not like shellfish. So the next time you are considering having the Queen in for an informal Saturday night dinner, just prior to watching Hockey Night in Canada, don’t listen to your husband.

Remember, no oysters.

All these things, and hundreds of others, have to be considered by our protocol experts in Ottawa [or Washington, Paris or any other capital–blogger] each time a formal party is tossed in swinging Bytown.

The going gets even more complicated when said party includes visiting heads of state. I mean, it wouldn’t do to get upset, or think you were being snubbed, if you were at such a party and your partner — a high ecclesiastical dignitary — did not offer you his arm when you went into dinner.

High ecclesiastical dignitaries, you understand, are not supposed to offer their arm to the lady they accompany.

I trust you feel better now that you know this.

Anyway, while I found the article fun to read, I did give fervent thanks that I was not mixed up in this kind of thing.

The protocol at my home may leave a lot to be desired — I mean, my wife still winces when I say to a guest, “You know where it is, go pour your own drink” — but life is much less complicated.

And any time a pretty girl, even if she is a junior, wants to sit on the right side of my sofa (that’s the side closest to my easy chair) she will be perfectly welcome.

After all, I do not believe in class distinction. Not at a time like that.

— Frank Lowe, Editor, Weekend Magazine (in 1973)

2 Comments


  1. When my husband and I lived in Santa Barbara, California, the Queen came to visit President Ronald Reagan on his ranch high in the nearby mountains. Unfortunately a series of bad rainstorms had made the roads up to the ranch treacherous. Therefore, security people suggested changing the location of the BBQ to a safer place. The Queen would have none of it and said, “We do not change our schedule due to rain.” They safely got her up the mountain and she enjoyed her food (so she said). I later drove that same road to show property (I was a Realtor at the time) and held my breath over many stretches of scary road. I kept saying to myself, “If the Queen can do it, I can do it.”
    Good motto for some situations.

    Get well soon. Knee injuries are not for wimps!


  2. Oh heavens! One must be a bit deranged to deal with all of these rules. Enjoy those mighty sons!

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