PLEASE forgive me. Barely 72 hours have elapsed since the announcement of the Queen Mother's death, and I am writing this wearing a red silk tie. It is a shocking lapse in taste; I know this because newsreader Peter Sissons wore a burgundy tie to report her passing, causing "dismay", the Daily Mail reported.

According to the BBC, only a deceased monarch merits a compulsory black tie. Mr Sisson's neckwear was deemed "sombre enough". This conjures up an official corporation colour chart, where presenters can match their outfits against a range of shades. Minor aristocrat perished? Nothing livelier than Willow Glade Green. TV cook choked to death? Anything goes, short of a revolving bow tie.

This ludicrous fuss epitomises our confused attitude to official mourning. We have lit candles, opened condolence books, fired off guns, and yet we still have nearly a week to fill until the funeral.

We could go and pay our respects in person. I used to think lying in state was Tony Blair's job. But no. Thanks to this creepy ritual, people who never met the Queen Mother can belatedly make up for the oversight by filing past her coffin at Westminster Hall.

It seems a shame that we are all expected to be so po-faced. According to Prince Charles, the Queen Mother had an "utterly irresistible mischievousness of spirit"; "she saw the funny side and we laughed until we cried".

If this is the case, why are we not celebrating a life that lasted 101 years? Why couldn't Peter Sissons wear a tie boasting a Beefeaters Gin logo? Why couldn't we all enjoy a free punt on the Grand National, courtesy of Buck House, to commemorate the Queen Mother's passion for horse racing?

Instead we are embarrassed at being expected to grieve for someone who lived a very long, fairly exciting and enormously privileged life.

Two things stood out for me from all the coverage. One is the widely held belief that the Queen Mother was a great communicator - yet she never said a word in public. What a neat trick to pull off.

Second was the oft-repeated idea that her exit was exquisitely timed, so as not to overshadow the Jubilee.

If that was the case, then three people I truly admired timed their exits lamentably. Dudley Moore, Billy Wilder and Barry Took all had their recent departures downgraded to economy class as the Queen Mother took up the entire first class cabin.

These three had the same affect on me as she had on Prince Charles: they reduced me to helpless laughter. Dudley Moore's partnership with Peter Cook was magical. This pair certainly didn't have to say a word to be great communicators. A twitch of the eyebrow was enough. The words were a blissful bonus.

Billy Wilder made some of cinema's masterpieces, and in Some Like It Hot he created one of the funniest films ever. And Barry Took co-wrote something as enduringly hilarious for the radio - Round The Horne.

In their obituaries, mention was made of their flaws: Moore's matrimonial violence; Wilder's black moods; Took's failed marriages. That they were less than perfect did not diminish their talent or memory.

We were not allowed to read of the Queen Mother's foibles, of course, perhaps because she achieved fame not through talent but via marriage and matriarchy. Her obituaries were many times longer than those for the three others combined, and yet hardly a line hinted at even the slightest blemish to her character. She was royalty, not deity.

The Queen Mother has gone, and life goes on. And I'll be wearing a blue tie tomorrow, since you ask.

Updated: 10:54 Wednesday, April 03, 2002