by The reincarnated monarch offers a surprisingly warm tribute to a weather presenter’s decision to move on
Good evening, good evening, settle down, mind the low doorway on your way in, this particular venue in Brixton apparently used to be a bank vault, which feels appropriate given how much of my own reign involved anxiously guarding gold.
I read this week that weather presenter Carol Kirkwood has announced she has decided to leave the BBC after decades of loyal service, and friends, I want to be genuinely sincere with you for a moment about what it means when someone who has served an institution faithfully for that long simply decides, on her own terms, that it’s time to go.
On The Matter Of Loyal Servants Choosing To Leave
I did not, across my own reign, handle the departure of loyal servants particularly gracefully, if I am honest with this room. Several of mine did not get to choose their own exit terms at all. There is something genuinely admirable, I think, in an institution allowing someone who has served it faithfully for decades to leave on her own terms, with dignity, rather than the considerably more abrupt departures I historically arranged for my own court.
A Word On What Decades Of Loyal Service Actually Deserve
Whatever specific role, whatever century, someone who shows up faithfully for that long deserves a proper, dignified send-off rather than simply being quietly replaced without acknowledgment. I did not always manage this myself. I think it’s worth saying, genuinely, that the modern approach represents real progress.
The Closer
I shall leave you with this. Decades of loyal service deserve a proper goodbye, whether you’re forecasting weather or running a kingdom. I wish Ms. Kirkwood considerably more peaceful retirement than several of my own departed servants ever managed to achieve. Good night, mind the vault door, and mind your own loyal service, whatever form it takes.
An Encore Nobody Asked For
One more thing before I’m cut off, as is apparently customary once a comedian overstays his welcome, a fate considerably less permanent than my own at Tower Hill, though I’m told it feels similarly abrupt to the performer experiencing it. In the green room, surrounded by crisps and what appears to be an actual, genuine bank vault door still installed on the wall, I kept thinking about how rare it actually is, across any century, for someone to get to leave loyal service entirely on their own terms.
Let me leave you with this, and then truly I must go, for the promoter has begun that specific throat-cutting gesture. Good departures, friends, whatever era, whatever institution, are worth genuinely celebrating when they happen properly. Good night, and to anyone leaving loyal service on their own terms this week, genuinely, well done. I mean that.
