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Now there's no way that I'm an anti Royalist...Quite the
reverse.

I think they do a great job. What I am is an anti traditionalist. To me
the biggest waste of my hard earned income tax is the sight of some
postillion sitting on his posterior on the back of an ancient coach in
which one might expect to see Henry the Eighth if the fancy dress
surrounding it is anything to go by. Why do we need a red carpet when
the London Boroughs various doubtless expend thousands of the residents
hard earned Council Tax money preserving perfectly good
pavements..?

The sight of a whole load of scarlet beclad toy soldiers thumping
around Horse Guards Parade..on not one but two Royal birthdays, paid
for courtesy of Joe Taxpayer to me is a total betrayal of
priorities.

The Pomp was the same in Middlethorpe...Only the circumstances were
different.

"HER" VISIT

N

estling in its own peculiar brand of harmonious congenial serenity deep
within the unique rural obscurity of Toddlesworth on the Pee lies the
rose garden bestrewn, clipped hedge perimetered, three bedroom semi
"Dunromin".

Those hallowed portals were house, home, residence and place of
ultimate sanctuary to Albert and Freda Stoic, respectively His Worship
the Mayor and the Lady Mayoress of the Parish Council of the hamlet of
Middlethorpe in the Mire.

Tuesday the Umpteenth of Octember 08-00.....Breakfast

Today should have been a day like any other day. The meeting of the
Policy, Sports, Planning, Finance and Recreational Committee should
have taken its normal course. The published agenda covering a
heterogeneous conglomeration of burning local issues and written in
almost three lines would be discussed for almost five minutes. Minutes
would then be taken which, if history repeated itself, would take the
form of "Refer to next meeting for decision". The meeting would then
consider the final agenda item, "Any other Business". Someone would
propose that the remainder of the day's civic business would be better
undertaken in the convivial atmosphere of the lounge bar of The Wise
Owl Tavern. A volley of hands would show to second the proposal and the
motion would be carried unopposed.

But today was not that predictable. Today the simple world of His
Worship the Mayor was to be shattered beyond recall.

It started over breakfast. Casting aside the Ferret Racers Gazette, it
was the Lady Mayoress who opened....

"I see it's official then."

"What is?" replied His Worshipfulness. His degree of interest was muted
since priority was given to the demolition of the second battalion of
dunked in egg yolk marmite soldiers.

"That rumour I heard at the "Keep Middlethorpe a Green Party Free Zone
Meeting."

His Worshipfulness's attention was still distracted as he bayoneted a
rampant sausage previously cunningly trapped in a swift pincer movement
between the edge of the plate and a grilled rasher of bacon.

"She's coming then." continued his wife.

"Who is?"

"She is. You know, HER."

"Not HER!" exclaimed His Worshipfulness, now finally resigned to the
unavoidable distraction..."You don't mean HER?"

"Elizabeth." replied Her Ladyship..She quoted from the broadsheet. "A
short informal business visit in cognito with no fuss or
publicity....It says here that she's looking forward to meeting the
local people and enjoying the rural atmosphere. Apparently her
husband's coming too."

The Mayors attention now assumed tunnel vision to the conversation. The
fact that three fried mushrooms were now mounting a spirited if
foolhardy counter attack from behind his coffee mug held no
significance as the sheer horror of the situation both dawned and sunk
in at the same instant.

"Don't be bloody stupid woman! THEY can't go anywhere without being
recognised in or out of cognito!..SHE must be the most recognisable
woman in the whole damned wide world...and HE's not exactly
nondescript.

SHE is coming HERE!.... to my town! Perhaps even to my house! "

Albert became very possessive about Middlethorpe on such
occasions....Not that there had ever been any similar previous
occasions...but rest assured if there had been Albert would have been
very possessive.

"But SHE can't!..SHE can't just ARRIVE like that...But there again I
suppose SHE'S in a position to go where SHE likes..After all it's a
free country. But SHE can't just arrive out of the blue, ...I mean ..
well....we have to get ready..Things have to be done..You
know..preparations..and what about the Civic Reception..the banquet
..the band.. the buntings...and who's going to look after the corgies?
Christ..I'll have to write the speech....!!!

Albert prided himself on being the Basso Profundo of the church choir.
The pitch by this time had almost reached soprano.

The Lady Mayoress was not listening. By this time she was deeply
engrossed in studying the fates that a certain astrologer had dreamt up
for all those thousands of people who had had the misfortune or
otherwise to be born under the sign Leo, and thus she had not fully
comprehended the rantings of her now paranoid husband as described in
the previous paragraph....And that, despite the fact that a mistimed
frustrated lunge with her husband's fork had sent an itinerant baked
bean pole vaulting across the table ricocheting off the milk jug and
landing unceremoniously in her egg cup.

Now distracted herself from revelations that "Life is about to enter a
new an exciting romantic phase" she looked up, saw the look of abject
terror on Albert's face, came to the realisation that romance was the
very last item on her husband's agenda and resolved in that instant
that all astrologers were frauds and charletons.

A puzzled look came over her brow.

"She might be a celebrity, but after all she's only a woman.....I
really don't see what all the fuss is about."

A cry akin to that of a marauding banshee left the Mayor's lips closely
followed by streams of hot coffee, which with the effect of water
cannon sent the advancing mushrooms scurrying to the trenches behind
the bacon rind.

"Fuss, woman! Of course we must make a fuss. Everyone makes a fuss when
SHE comes.... I mean SHE expects it.."

Albert grabbed wildly at the newspaper but merely succeeded in tearing
the predictions of the astrologer into shreds which, incidentally made
no mention of "Visits from people in high places" under Sagittarius
either.

"According to this she's coming on Thursday at about lunchtime."
continued his wife, still unable to understand the reason for all the
panic and despite Albert's desperate efforts at seizure of the local
broadsheet had still retained possession of the offending page.

"THURSDAY !!!" screamed Albert whose voice had long since given way to
the overall feeling of hysteria. "Thursday! Well that's ...er...
er..."

"The day after tomorrow."

"The day after tomorrow !!!" screamed Albert, as though repeating the
phrase would somehow change the time frame.

"But that's only...That just gives us...... That means we've only
got...."

"Forty eight hours," replied his wife who was infinitely the better of
the two at anything vaguely arithmetical, but even now still
indifferent to her husband's apparent panic.

"FORTY EIGHT HOURS!" exclaimed His Worshipfulness in an umpteen decibel
high pitched scream.."But..But..But.." he spluttered.."Why wasn't I
told?.... She can't just arrive unannounced....Well, I mean, apart from
everything else what about security?"..

"She'll only be here a couple of hours, dear...Just passing through, as
they say."

"Just passing through!...SHE never 'Just passes through.' Don't you
realise Freda, this could finally be the making of Middlethorpe. This
could put us on the flamin' map!"

Readers who have been following the breakfast theme may be interested
to learn that the mushrooms finally surrendered. The result of the flow
of tomato sauce which had emerged relentlessly from the bottle which by
this time had been held in freeze frame for nearly two minutes, four
inches from and at sixty degrees to, the rim of Alberts plate had
finally overwhelmed them despite heroic last minute attempts to shore
up their defences behind the last remaining sausage.

Albert's voice had dropped by half an octave. His rational thinking
though was still only hovering at about four out of ten.

"It's that bloke Pymm, isn't it?...Spells his name with two M's and
thinks he's got blue blood in his veins. He's done this! Kept me in the
dark. The swine! I thought he was giving the chain of office a loving
look! Working out what it would look like round his scrawny neck! Just
because I wouldn't support his planning application for a double decker
extension to his pigeon loft. Oh it's all right for him. He can make a
bloody fortune with those racing pigeons of his....I have to look at
the wider aspects...like what a one hundred per cent increase in pigeon
guano does for the municipal cleaning budget."

There were some occasions upon which the Lady Mayoress had simply given
up any attempt to understand her husband's eccentric behavior. This was
one of them. She blamed it on the male menopause.

His Worship the Mayor was totally gobsmacked. He said so. Well, that
wasn't quite what he said but the sentiment was close.

Within the space of two minutes his usual ruddy countenance had assumed
the hue of a grader employed by a well known brand of flour.

The Members of the Committee hastily assembled in the lounge bar of the
Wise Owl were equally gobsmacked. They said so. Well, that wasn't quite
what they said but the sentiment was close.

Apologies for absence were received from Councilor Pymm which did
nothing to soothe His Worshipfulness's temper but at least postponed
the imminent danger of bloodshed.

The lounge bar of the Wise Owl assumed the proportions of a World War
Two operations room as one by one organising committees and
sub-committees were sworn in sworn out and sworn at. On a point of
order and following a declaration of interest, Fred, the landlord, was
seconded to the Organising Sub-Committee on the basis that the
television crew had already arrived and because he stood to make more
money than when he had hosted Pamela Ponsonby's wedding reception,
drinks for all participants were on the house.

Now to be fair given less than forty eight hours to prepare for HER
visit the combined resourcefulness of the Middlethorpe councilors and
duly seconded members of the local population had to be admired. The
Elderly Lady Residents Cello and French Horn Ensemble was rapidly
reformed and with the able assistance of the Boy Scouts Brass Band
performed a recognisable if somewhat off key rendition of the National
Anthem. The Women's Institute Knitting Circle did a wonderful job of
recycling the away kit socks of Toddlesworth Athletics' First Eleven
into a profusion of coloured buntings, and Mrs Claythorpe, always a
lady to turn to in a crisis, did a sterling job of turning the local
cricket pavilion into an impromptu field kitchen.

Within the first hour and a half the Tatums butcher and baker
partnership had been awarded the largest meat and confectionery
contract ever underwritten by the Middlethorpe ratepayers, the sales of
local brewers Joshia Stiffe and partners had shot straight off the
graph and even Fred Floggit and Percy Golightly had been contacted to
be on standby with copious supplies of Apricot Lager and Apple Scrumpy
just in case the beer ran out.

Even the municipal cleaners had rallied to the call and cleaned most of
the aforementioned guano off the statue in the square....Well, it was
HER grandmother!!

Thursday the umptieth...Breakfast.

"She came then." opened her Ladyship, seeing the scowl on the face of
his Worshipfulness as he performed neat surgery on a fried egg.

"Ruined!" exclaimed the Mayor, as he vented his frustrations by forking
two foolhardy baked beans attempting a daring escape by tunneling their
way out of the toast. "Ruined! Ruined! Ruined!..I'll never be able to
show my face in Middlethorpe again. I'm a laughing stock...an object of
derision..a political outcast...and all because of HER. Of course I've
had to resign...first thing this morning. I think we'll have to
consider moving away as well. The whole population will be smaning
behind our backs for years after this...Even the paper boy referred to
me this morning as "Your 'EX' Worshipfullness."...cheeky little
blighter...."

"It'll blow over dear..Worse things happen. Look at the House of
Commons....

"But just look at the headline." This week Albert had made sure he got
to the Gazette first... "WRONG ROYAL FUSS!"....It should have read
"RIGHT ROYAL OCCASION!"

"Oh stop worrying Albert ....We might have to change the house name
from "Dunromin" to "Dunmayorin" for a little while ....but it'll
pass..".

"But I thought you see"..stammered her husband..."Well I thought...it
was HER..You know the one that's married to HIM... and HE didn't come
either. Why didn't someone tell me that the HER in question wasn't HER
at all but another HER entirely?..I mean I am the Bloody
Mayor!..Correction WAS the BLOODY MAYOR!..I should have been
told!"

"Yes Dear...But..If you and the other hair brained members of the
Council had actually read the paper, you'd have known it was only that
actress.. Liz Whatsername.....here to film a Gas Board
Commercial...

Anyway dear...Weren't YOU the one who was supposed to be in
control?".........