Buckingham Palace was a hive of activity on the day of the State Opening of Parliament. The most famous of all of the Queen’s residences in the heart of London was a-buzz with all manner of people rushing to and fro within its famous walls. Telephones chimed, papers were rustled, while plain clothed officers and secret service agents gave themselves away by answering their mobile telephones and then suddenly rushing off somewhere.
All this gave away a feeling of complete confusion as chaos ruled throughout the grand surroundings. Except in one place. An oasis of calm and serenity in the Queen’s own bedroom. Her Majesty had seen plenty of these days during her sixty years on the throne of the United Kingdom and although everybody else was in a state of blind panic she would remain as composed as ever. Anything else just would not do.
The Queen sat before her mirror in the bedroom adding a spot of makeup to her cheeks. One of her staff would always ensure she looked impeccable but a lady always enjoyed pottering with make up whether they were from one of the poorest corners of the country or the head of the world’s most famous family.
The Queen put her make up down and gazed at herself. The grey haired lady who looked back at her had seen an awful lot during her lifetime. A curious twist of fate had landed her in this position after her uncle abdicated the throne for an American divorcee had meant her father would be King and, therefore, she would be heir to a throne that she was never supposed to inherit. Her father died in 1952 while she was away in Kenya. If she regretted not being by his side in his final moments she never let slip as her dedication to duty and her country consumed her completely.
Without warning the door to her room was thrown open. “What the bloody hell are all these people doing here?” The Queen looked to her left and glared across the room at her husband, the Duke of Edinburgh, Prince Phillip. He was known for his short temper and now at ninety years of age showed no signs of mellowing with age.
“These people as you so gracefully put it are here because it is the State Opening of Parliament today or had you forgot?” The Queen answered and gave her husband one of her looks, the kind of look that would remind people who exactly was in charge and would turn the volatile Duke into a quivering mass of a husband, calmly and quickly put into his place. “Also, as it is such a day don’t you think you should get changed out of those clothes?”
The Duke looked down at his tweed jacket and jodhpurs and sighed to himself as he realised he would have to get changed out of his favourite relaxation clothes and into the bulky and uncomfortable attire of formal red jacket military wear.
“Are they all going to be there?” Prince Phillip asked of the Queen.
“Who?”
“You know all those bally politicians, Labour, Liberals and the lot.”
“Of course they are, why do you ask?”
“Because you know I can’t stand any of them. Especially that wet Cameron.”
“He seems rather nice, besides he is a Tory and I thought you liked Tories.” The Royal Family were not supposed to have political leanings as a rule but it was an open secret that many of them preferred the Tories.
The Duke huffed a reply. “Bah! he’s soft as shite that man, now George Osborne there is a man who looks like the business. Cameron looks as if he is either going to piss his pants or burst into tears at the slightest thing.”
“Oh no, not Osborne, he gives me the heeby-jeebies, I get nervous whenever he is about.”
“He is just confident, that’s all. He knows what’s going on.”
The House of Commons debating chamber was packed. Every MP from all parts of the political spectrum was present. The murmur of a hundred conversations echoed as they waited to be summoned to listen to their Sovereign’s speech. Tradition had it that the entrance to the chamber would be open, then the man known as Black Rod would approach. As he neared the famous room the doors would be slammed shut in his face. This would be to symbolise the House of Commons’ separation from the Royal Family and as representatives of the people. Black Rod would then knock three times on the shut doors and summon the House of Commons to attend the Queen.
David Cameron sat in his usual place as Prime Minister. Although this was the Queen’s Speech it was actually written by his party and would be announcement of their policies for the coming year. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was a lover of grand, traditional ceremonies but he knew the world was looking and waiting to see how he would react to his nation’s faltering economy. Lately, as the economy stumbled its way into recession, his dreams about a naked Chancellor had increased, now though he had come to him during his sleep but had spoken with different voices. To date he had not identified the voices as the bizarreness of the dreams had Cameron waking up in a cold sweat.
“Nervous, Prime Minister?” The Chancellor was sat, as usual, next to Cameron and asked the question without looking at the Prime Minister.
“What? Me? No, no, no, no.” Cameron failed to convince himself.
“Of course you’re not” George Osborne looked at Cameron and smiled.
“I’m not nervous at all, today we reclaim control and get things back on track.”
“Certainly, Prime Minister, we reclaim control and the stuff of your nightmares becomes the making of your finest dreams.”
Cameron felt that sentence shoot through him. He looked at George Osborne who was staring back at him. They smiled as Black Rod entered the chamber and summoned the MP’s to listen to the speech.
