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her feet. She sat in the car and made notes, “Client resistant; not dressed at 10 am.”
    When the Queen heard the car draw away she went to her husband, who was lying on his back in a deep sleep. A dewdrop hung from his craggy nose. The Queen took a handkerchief from her handbag and wiped the dewdrop away. She didn’t know how to continue with her day: bathing, dressing and doing her own hair seemed to be insurmountable problems. I couldn’t even open my own front door , she thought. The only thing she was certain of was that she wouldn’t be at home to visitors at 3 pm.
    There was no hot water in the icy bathroom, so she washed in cold. Her hair was impossible; it had lost its set. She did the best she could and eventually tied a scarf, gypsy-fashion, around her head. How very awkward it was to dress oneself, how fiddly buttons were! Why did zips stick so? How on earth did one choose what went with what? She thought of the corridors lined with closets where her clothes used to hang in colour co-ordinated rows. She missed the deft fingers of her dresser fastening her brassiere. What a ludicrous device a brassiere was! How did other women cope with those hooks and eyes? One needed to be a contortionist to bring the two together without assistance.
    When the Queen was dressed, she had a terrific sense of achievement. She wanted to tell somebody, like the day she had tied her shoelaces for the first time. Crawfie had been so pleased. “Guid girrl. You’ll never have to do it for yourself, of course, but it’s as well to know – much like logarithms.”
    The only source of heat in the house was the gas fire in the living room. Beverley had turned it on last night, but now the Queen was baffled. She turned the knob to full, held a match to the ceramic element, but nothing happened. She was anxious to have at least one warm room before Philip woke and (perhaps she was being over-ambitious) she planned to make breakfast: tea and toast. She imagined Philip and herself sitting by the gas fire planning their new lives. She had always had to placate Philip, he had resented walking one step behind her. His personality was not in tune with playing second fiddle. He was a whole quarreling orchestra.
    Harris came in as she was holding the last match to the recalcitrant gas fire. He was hungry and cold and there was nobody to give him food, apart from herself. She was torn between the fire and Harris. There is so much to do , thought the Queen. So many tasks. How do ordinary people manage ?

    “The secret is one puts a fifty pence piece in the slot,” said Prince Charles. He had gained access to his mother’s house by knocking on the living room window and climbing through. He opened the meter cupboard and showed his mother the metal slot.
    “But I haven’t got a fifty pence piece,” said the Queen.
    “Neither have I. Would Papa have one?”
    “Why would Papa have one?”
    “Quite. William may have one in his piggy bank. Should I … er … go and …?”
    “Yes, tell him I’ll pay him back.”
    The Queen was struck by the change in her son. He started to climb out of the front window, then came back for a moment.
    “Mama?”
    “Yes, darling?”
    “A social worker called on us this morning.”
    “Trish McPherson?”
    “Yes. She was awfully nice. She told me that I could have my ears fixed on the National Health. She told me that I have been damaged psychologically … er … and I think she’s … well … sort of, er … right. Diana’s thinking about having her nose done. She’s always hated it.” As Charles bounded past her living room window, the Queen thought: how happy he looks on what should be the most miserable day of his life!
    Upstairs, Prince Philip stirred. There was something disagreeable on the end of his nose. He said, “Fetch me a handkerchief, quickly!” to a non-existent servant. After a few seconds, he remembered where he was. Looking around helplessly, he capitulated to his present