Thǫkk

When Baldr the golden,a brave beautiful son of Odin, was killed due to the machinations of Loki Mischief-Maker, Hel said she would release him from the Underworld if every object and every being alive or dead would weep for him. And so it was, except for one, a giantess called Thǫkk, whose name in old Norse meant 'Thanks.' She would not weep, and so the beloved god had to stay in the dark realm. 'And men deem that she who was there was Loki Laufeyarson, who hath wrought most ill among the Æsir.'- Gylfaginning 49, Brodeur's translation.

Maybe I am heartless Thǫkk, but I am not trying to be Loki. I'm happy to hug you and hold your hand if you feel broken, I will never scorn sincerity. But I will not be manipulated into love.

The slobbering, the fawning, the mawkish memes, awful saccharine depictions of Paddington Bear and Union Jacks, the quivering-penned poems about how the angels are welcoming her, the corgis, oh the corgis! There's one charmingly childlike little illustration doing the rounds, of the queen in the afterworld with Elizabeth, Philip and a little orange canine with a white splodge on its tail. At first I thought it had to be a fox.But of course it wouldn't be, would it? It really wouldn't be. There are a few other orangey beasts it wouldn't be either.

https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/royals-bloody-trophy-hunting-past-23410242

Almost, if not quite as bad, are the thanks for her service. What exactly did she do?
She signed things, and if they were bad things, she was not to blame because she couldn't influence them, and if they were good things, she gets no credit for the same reason.
Yesterday some royal expert tried to explain what embodying the crown, the constitution of the UK, means. 'There's a lot of paperwork,' they said. They talked later about royal residences; Buckingham Palace, Windsor, Holyrood, Balmoral, Sandringham... And the miner or the nurse who lived long hard lives of service and died poor and exhausted, have you seen where they lived? Cold-hearted Thǫkk might consider their lives and weep. She might cry to see a magnificent animal brought down by some gun-cheery coward for sport. But she won't cry for one of the most powerful, loved, influential, rich, women in the world, a woman born above the law. And she won't call years of being obeyed and meeting people 'service.' That's giantesses for you.

Addendum

When the announcement came, I had the Beeb on ready; funnily enough, that's the nearest I can give to a mark of respect. There will be no toast, no declarations of 'God Save The...' No. But there is a way to hear these things in the life of our nation; it is the job of the national broadcaster to tell us with solemnity and dignity for those who have passed, those who remain, those who care, those who don't. And I trembled, cold for a second, because that's it, the wrap up on the UK that was. There's no way of harking back now to the Boomer days, or the Empire, or post-Empire or whatever the hell we were. All's spent, nostalgia suddenly shifts back further than Kodachrome, the old days and ways are done. And here is a strange thing; instantly, the Crown moves, like a possessing spirit, to King Charles III. And how odd and painful it must feel, one's destiny instantly fulfilled in the death of a parent!

What will the UK become now? Is anything really different?