The Funeral of Baroness Thatcher – 17th April 2013

There are moments in life that you feel compelled to witness. I did. And there are moments you never forget—this is one of them.

I travelled from Yorkshire to London in the early hours with two fellow association members to ensure we arrived in time. We positioned ourselves near St Paul’s Cathedral ahead of the funeral procession. Many have asked if I wished to be inside the Cathedral itself; I can honestly say no. I felt I was meant to be on the pavements, among the people.

Having spent considerable time working in London, often for extended periods, I am familiar with its busiest streets and the relief of returning to the quieter roads of Yorkshire. Yet nothing could have prepared me for the sheer scale of the crowds that day. The streets were packed, row upon row of people standing shoulder to shoulder, sharing their stories and memories of Lady Thatcher, explaining why they had made the journey and where they had come from.

From my Facebook post on the day:

“In London, to pay respects to Baroness Thatcher. The pavements are six deep, street after street, with people. A very humbling and emotional day to witness her funeral procession: the Armed Forces, the Police, the crowds applauding as each passes by. Long journey, long day, but very pleased to be here. I sincerely hope the day passes without incident for the sake of her family and because the eyes of the world are upon us. Today should reflect dignity, not disarray.”

Despite her reputation for polarising opinions, I witnessed no arguments or altercations. In that moment, it felt as though the entire country had come together. The atmosphere was quietly dignified, tinged with anticipation, until the procession began.

We heard the bands before we saw them. One by one, the Armed Forces emerged, and the steady applause began, growing as she approached. It was a profoundly moving experience. Strangers stood side by side, embracing, some crying, myself included. Though the procession passed in just minutes, the streets fell silent afterward, a silence I will never forget—a moment where political divides seemed to vanish, if only briefly.

The journey home through the quiet country roads of Yorkshire, the same roads I had walked with leaflets in hand days before, offered time for reflection. They would never feel quite the same again.

There will never be another “Maggie.” For women in politics, being compared to her is both a compliment and a challenge—we strive to carve our own paths and establish our own worth. I have immense respect for her, along with many other pioneering women in politics. Yet in my heart, she is simply Margaret: a girl, a daughter, a student, a chemist—from Lincolnshire. Walking the same streets she once did while working in Grantham, I continue to carve my own path, inspired by her example.

I sincerely hope she would be proud of whatever I achieve.