You may think that my reactions are remarkably slow, that the
mounting tumult and, I have to admit, the importance of what I had
become involved in had somehow escaped my notice. And it is true
my trajectory of the last few days, or was it only a scant 36 hours?
Had followed that of the inducted addict who embarks so casually on
a course that leads to waking up one morning on an unknown
doorstep in an unknown part of town. Save that in my case my
awakening occurred in one of the most exclusive bathrooms in the
world. Perhaps the Mark VI's sudding had led to a malfunction at a
profounder level than the engineers had ever considered possible.
Suffice it to say that I now found myself both the Queen and not the
Queen. Outwardly I fulfilled all visual requirements, I could trigger an
obeisance from a statue, I could walk the corridors of the Castle as if I
owned it, my celebrity status was unrivalled for who else alive today
has been a reigning monarch for 60 years? Yet I knew that this
window could not last for long. A hack as head of state? Give me a
week and I could ruin every institution in the country and the
comforting solidity of our current ruler would be shattered, perhaps
forever, and with it our self-image as a nation of cozy crumpet
toasters ready to offer an inglenook to all.
The wreckage of the bathroom presented a daunting sight, not least
how to interpret the layers of concreted foam, the vomit puddled floor,
the sopping towels and some slight, but detectable, steam warpage.
The curtains were ruined and a nice old William IV linen cupboard
had taken a wisp of dragon's breath during my life and death struggle.
I felt like a school child that was about to be held to account rather
than the dignified occupant of the Triple Throne. Of course the
greater blame would be cast upon the dogs, provided they could be
found, but then, and this was far more serious as injury to a human
being was involved, there was the question of the scalded footman.
For now I could but hope that he was lying unconscious in some
untrodden attic, and yet to abandon him to an untended death from
third degree facial burns would be inhuman. Was it possible to flee
screaming and hideously injured through the well-regulated tunnels of
granite that connected the castle's chambers wholly unnoticed?
There was a limit to what could be swept under the carpet even in a
palace of such dimensions as this, and staff could not be classed with
run-of-the-mill debris. Seven maids with seven mops could soon put
