Panful of inspiration to keep going
‘‘GOOD morning, Ma’am. Another pleasant day.” “What’s pleasant about it, Merriweather? Yet another day on the throne. I’ve had 25,550 of the bloomin’ things. It’s been 70 years. Heavens, even a life sentence usually sees the wretch out in 15 years.’’
“There, there, Ma’am. Don’t be so upset. Anyone would think you’d got out of bed on the wrong side.”
“I’m not even out of the jolly thing yet, Merriweather. Then the royal bath. Precisely seven inches of water and always the same temperature. I see you have the old woodcased thermometer at the ready?”
“But of course, Ma’am. That’s the system.”
“But surely, as Elizabeth Alexandra Mary, Elizabeth II, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of her other realms and territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith, one could have a halfhour wallow in two feet of really hot water with lashings of Olverum’s bath salts? They’re in there, I know, because Fortnum and Mason keep sending boxes of the stuff. I know the label off by heart. ‘Natural, vegan and crueltyfree, Olverum’s soothing bath salts are the perfect addition to your skincare and wellbeing routine. The refined formula combines a blend of essential oils with sustainably sourced Kalahari Desert salt, Dead Sea salt and micronutrient avocado oil — a deeppenetrating solution which helps repair skin, nails and hair.
Use these salts to relax your mind and body and get a good night’s sleep.’ And, boy, does one need a good night’s sleep! Why does every police sergeant who gets posted outside my door overnight have to be a member of the Great Britain Olympic Snoring team?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Ma’am. The Royal Sergeant is there for your protection. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten the time Michael Fagan got into your bedroom in 1982.”
“How could one forget? In this job having a strange man in one’s bedroom is not easy. Whatever happened to Michael?”
“He indecently exposed himself in 1987 and then got four years for supplying heroin in 1997 and at last report had had a heart attack and had caught Covid.”
“Oh, dear. One would have hoped for a rather better class of intruder. Ah, well, boring old bath time again.”
“I could speak to the Chamberlain of Royal Ablutions and Closets about a deeper bath, if that is your wish.”
“Never mind, Merriweather. The Sun would find out about it and have field day. ‘Royals in More Hot Water!!’ You know what they’re like. That’s why I always listen to Radio 4. So soothing. Except when that clown Boris Johnson deigns to appear. That Ukraine business can be upsetting, too. Boris is a Russian name, isn’t it? Good heavens! Is the Prime Minister Russian?”
“I believe he was born in the United States, Ma’am.”
“That’s just as bad, maybe worse. Now, a cup of tea would be nice.”
“Of course, Ma’am. A pot of Twinings Earl Grey, two biscuits and the milk poured first as usual?”
“Need you ask, Merriweather. That’s how one has started the day 25,550 times – 25,551 now. Apart from those poor devils who check for misshapen carrots in the packing shed one must have the most boring job in the world. Breakfast will be cereal and fruit. Stored in a Tupperware container as the media insist on mentioning ad nauseam. You’d think as Queen one could have a patriotic, oldfashioned Full English Breakfast. Just imagine it! Bacon, eggs, bangers, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, fried onions, toast and marmalade. What do you think, Merriweather?’
“The Royal Chef may well resign at that suggestion, Ma’am. Perhaps scrambled eggs?”
“Scrambled eggs! That’s only on one’s birthday and during the grouse shooting. Forget it. Cereal will do. And I suppose the Royal Bagpiper will be making that infernal row as one chomps though the cornflakes?”
“Well, it’s traditional, Ma’am, and it does keep the Scottish National Party at bay. I’ll get the dressers to lay out today’s outfits and leave the diary with you to glance at. Just a bunch of Commonwealth politicians to meet before lunch and then the Chompies Dog of the Year Show this afternoon.”
“Oh, something to look forward to.”
“Seeing the politicians, Ma’am?”
“No, the dogs. Just thinking, Merriweather. They’re hoping I’ll make it to be a hundred and they’re already designing the commemorative mugs. But can one carry on with the same old, same old, for another four years? Perhaps you could find out if the Royal Chef could see his way clear to a Full English Breakfast, say, once a week. A right royal fryup could well persuade one to stay on the job.”
“I’ll do what I can, Ma’am.” “Thank you, Merriweather. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Learn to make my own tea, I suppose.”