Yesterday marked the prorogation of parliament, which is the exact opposite of the state opening. Especially as the Queen does not come. As Lord Falconer, her lord chancellor put it: "It not being convenient for Her Majesty to be here today."

I liked "not convenient". We half-hoped he would say that she had a lunch date which she'd already put off twice, or she couldn't miss the LK Bennett sale, but we were told nothing more.

The House of Lords was packed. Standing room only. Many of those present had not even bought their peerages.

Never have I seen so many people gathered together to watch not very much since I took my son to see Wimbledon 0 Everton 0 at Selhurst Park, in thick fog. "She has prepared a commission under the great seal," Lord Falconer told us and again, unbidden, into one's mind floated an image of this poor creature alone on a melting ice floe, another victim of global warming.

Everybody stood up, for no apparent reason. Several peers left the chamber. Then five minutes later they were back, having been to the dressing-up box, magnificent in full robes of scarlet and ermine, and hats, superb comedy pointed hats.

They made a wonderful row. Lord McNally, leader of the Lib Dems, then the lord speaker with whom, under the name of Helene Middleweek, I was at university, which makes me feel very old. The lord chancellor, Baroness Amos, and on the end Tom Strathclyde, the Tory leader, whose name was read out in full: "Thomas Galloway Dunlop Roy du Blicquy Galbraith Strathclyde", which isn't so much a name as a platform announcement for the stopping train. The peers, who had been sombre and composed up to this point, collapsed into giggles. Lord Strathclyde ("Tom" to his friends) waved his hat in merry greeting.

A clerk announced that, even though Her Majesty did "not deem it fit for her personally to be present", the various acts she was agreeing to would have the same "strength, force and effect" as if she had been - which is to say, very little strength, force or effect at all if previous New Labour legislation is anything to go by.

Then one of two clerks read out all the acts that had been passed. They had dull workmanlike, New Labour titles: the Violent Crime Reduction Act, the Education and Inspections Act, the Safeguarding Of Vulnerable Groups Act, and so forth. After each title was read out, another clerk spun round, a little like Carol Vorderman picking out a letter, and announced to the MPs, who had assembled at the bar of the house to join in the fun, "La Reine le veult", or "the Queen wishes it".

At this point it struck me that, while it might be the silliest flummery and pantomime nonsense, the ritual was moving, evocative and even resonant. For that one phrase, a piece of Norman French from nearly a thousand years ago, pronounced in the traditional fashion - "a wren le vurlt" - carried with it the unspoken addition, "whether she likes it or not", and so encompassed the history of our ancient freedoms, wrenched from the monarch by our ancestors over the centuries.