The Queen just arrived on my television set, waving to the adoring millions in front of Buck Palace and looking a bit tentative. I don’t blame her. Yes, I’m on the sofa, watching the endless and out of tune 60th Jubilee Concert. Well, of course I am, you know who’s singing last – Macca himself. My friend Lynn, who watched the concert last night on French TV, was not particularly impressed by PMc but loved Annie Lennox and her angel wings, as did I a few minutes ago. Lynn told me Paul sings “Magical Mystery Tour” which is not my favourite, that whole period, a bit weird, a bit off.

But I am particularly grateful that this long concert is on TV this evening, because there are particular circumstances around this night spent in front of the screen. About 90 minutes ago, I was carrying an awkward box downstairs when I tripped. I have no idea how it happened, but I skipped two stairs and crashed into the bicycle in the hall at the bottom. And then there was pain.

Not broken pain, just pain. I managed to get up and into the kitchen and filled a cloth with ice cubes to wrap around the large lump on my foot. But I realized that I needed help, and got to the phone to call my neighbour Monique, who herself is just getting over a broken arm.

Oh my, here’s Andrew Lloyd Webber and another of his little tunes. Banal as it may be, he does know how to jerk the tears, that man. The African Childrens’ Choir alone is worth the price of admission.

Luckily, for once, my neighbour the social butterfly was home. “Monique, j’ai tombé,” I said, and she said, “J’arrive.” In seven seconds, she was at my front door. She got me onto the sofa, found my Advil, brought me water and blankets and the phone, went away with the key and came back with bandages she wrapped carefully around my foot and ankle. On her way home, she ran into my sweet downstairs tenant Heather, who just called to find out if I need anything.

I am feeling like a queen myself.  The blessing of friends. And pain killers.

One reason I was upstairs in the first place was to try to see the Transit of Venus, the planet passing in front of the sun, as happens, apparently, only once every century. But the sun was too bright; you need special glasses. Missed Venus, decided to carry a bit of furniture downstairs, and voila, mortality looms in a very small way, with a throbbing lump on the ankle.

Elton, in sparkly pink. He’s adorable.

I’m hungry.

Later: Oh my Paul. The voice is not what it was. But the spirit is there, as always. An odd selection of songs for a Queen’s Jubilee, to be sure – “Obladi Oblada”?! A bit painful, perhaps. But Macca is not going gently into no good night, and neither are Annie Lennox or Stevie Wonder or Elton or Tom Jones. And neither, for that matter, is Her Majesty. There she is, Mummy, looking tired and tense, and no wonder, with all this noisy hooha and her man in hospital.

Boy, I thought the Americans were patriotic and overdid the flag and anthem! Ah well. Long Live the Queen. Onward.

Now to hobble into the kitchen for a snack.