The London posh left Chelsea and moved to Battersea to be separated from their parents, but not from their money. A river in between seems enough of a barrier. And, sober everything, sufficiently orderly. Here I have them right now, by my side, exaggerating that 'public school' accent to increase their distance from me as much as possible while they buy me pints to shorten it by forced marches, as if they regretted it. It is the ambivalence of someone who is used to changing from punk to lord in just half an hour. You never know what menu to stay in this Woodman pub that I have entered to see what happens. And the reality is that nothing happens. The Queen has been dead for ten minutes and the BBC presides over the premises. There is a yellow silence, a silence of incubator and waiting room. It is not a tragic silence, there are no broken wrists or split throats here. The Protestant procession goes inside and there are never any bells ringing for the dead. Silence alone. A special silence, full of adjectives. A silence brimming with memories. Planes taking off, trains fleeing and a dog barking are heard. There is an alarm in the distance and a gray sky. Buckingham Palace is full, I see it on TV. But there is no one on the street. And in pubs there is only calm. At least in the first layer, because if you look closely you can see several overlapping layers. Behind the naif layer for tourists, you can see the layer of paper on which pastel colors were painted, and behind it the smell of sad cooking, public housing, pubs without carpet, bitter alcohol, women sad, the cover businesses, the invisible men dreaming of what they could be if they weren't what they really are, the heat of this hasty September, the mold on the corners, a fox that crosses and the silence of the afternoon when I pose he leaves, the curtain falls, and the Woodman opens the set again. Devastation And there, in the midst of light and tears, on the cusp of indefiniteness, I ask Trevor, who is sitting at the bar oblivious to the scene. And Trevor cries. “How do I feel? I feel devastated." Can not contain the emotion and goes to smoke. And Battersea is a little closer to Spain. “She has always been a great woman, educated, charming and pleasant. A great woman, a great woman…” And they lengthen the suspension points and the lost looks. Beside him, Phil and Oliver, who are in their nineties, nod. “She has been an unrepeatable woman. We are very sad". Carl, who is a pilot, tells me that “I am not a great monarchist, but after all I am 55 years old. We have lived our whole lives with her. It is a fixed reference. Everything changes, except our Queen. And whatever they say, the whole of the UK is in the deep end right now, mate." And I believe him, but he says it like he's filling out a swimming pool form. Carl writes love verses with the face of the one who is solving sudoku puzzles. And I, who solve sudoku puzzles in octosyllables, hug him metaphorically with another beer. He sees me. Related News standard If Elizabeth II, the Queen who has seen 7 Popes and lived 17 Olympic Games S. Gaviña standard No Elizabeth II's pop reign in ten songs Nacho Serrano A while later he returns to the table where I write to ask myself what is going to happen next, the following steps are characteristic. I count them out one by one and the entire pub turns to listen to the conversation. I end up explaining to them the protocol of what is coming in the next few days and they accept my words as if it were a dogma of faith. And then Joseph, the waiter, comes over. And next to him, Michael. Both agree that the pub is like any other day. “This affects older people. Young people don't care a bit. She was a great woman, but life goes on. His family is something else, everything from today is unknown. But she was above it all." And the pub begins to fill up with couples from Tinder, co-workers, a mother with her children, all wearing an Arsenal shirt, and executives who drink bad wine and who stop for a moment to pray for the Ribera del Duero from the bank of the Thames. And nothing happens here. All those who arrive, aware of my presence, come to the table where I write to tell me of their immense sorrow. His infinite sadness. They tell me that the common grandmother has passed away, but they leave and in the afternoon it looks like any other afternoon. This pub is the living room of a house, of a wooden house with the light as low as the mood. But hide it well. In that sense, I admire them. The dispute is the basis of art. And I, who came to see Harry Potter, ended the day throwing salutes for the Windsors.
