The Cruellest Month

While strolling through the Green Park this afternoon I saw that Her Majesty was in residence and called by to chat her up.

“I’ll be Mum, shall I?” said HM as she picked up the teapot. That was sweet of her, I thought, but in retrospect I think she might only have wanted to keep my hands off it – it was pretty nice stuff, all lions and unicorns, rather like a deleted scene from Narnia.

Once the state of the roads and the weather had been dealt with we moved on to politics. I suggested the government might take another look at their policies in Ireland over the past 900 years, and suggested a full withdrawl from the North, and a reparations scheme – something along the lines of forty acres and a mule? Her Majesty said that both acreage and mules were a bit thin on the ground at the moment, and would I like some Jaffa Cakes?

As I left, pleasantly surfeited on cakes and Assam, Her Majesty saw me to the door and waved me off in the royal fashion. She promised to look into the Irish thing. The weather had predicted rain around teatime, and didn’t disappoint, but Londoners are as blasé about rain as Seattleites, and this one scarcely raised a brolly.

May April be kind to you all.