Queen’s Luncheon

I’m gonna wave.

Don’t.

What if she waves first?

She won’t. Is that what you’re wearing?

Don’t look at me like that. This shirt was expensive, and it matches my pants perfectly.

You can’t wear jeans.

These aren’t jeans. They’re a special corduroy, like velvet. Here, feel.

You must own a decent frock.

I don’t, and the invitation says I can wear a lounge suit, day dress or national dress. I don’t have a day dress and who knows what a national dress is?

A lounge suit is what men wear. Let me look in your closet.

There’s nothing in there that fits me.

Probably due to the lollies you eat.

Or the roast dinners you serve.

I heard a guy on the radio complaining that he hadn’t been invited to the luncheon and was once the deputy mayor.

Must have been an oversight.

Or maybe the Queen wants to have lunch with regular people.

I doubt it. There will be people unhappy about you being there. Don’t make it worse by wearing that outfit.

Get out of my closet.

What about this blue frock? It’s dusty and needs an iron, but we can fix that, and it’s much better than what you’re planning to wear.

I don’t like it and don’t have time to iron. I gotta leave soon, and I haven’t read the menu or memorized the instructions yet.

What instructions? Read them to me.

It says if I’m introduced to Her Majesty The Queen or His Royal Highness, the Duke of Edinburgh, I need to curtsy. And I must greet her with, ‘Your Majesty’ but just once. After that, I say ‘Ma’am’ (as in Pam), and I can’t say ‘you’. If her husband speaks to me, I address him as ‘Your Royal Highness’ and then as ‘Sir’. Why isn’t he the King?

You really don’t know?

I don’t.

I’ll lend you a book, and you can read for yourself why?

Yeah, okay. What about the curtsy? Do I bend down to the floor?

Oh Jeez. Just look at the floor and squat once.

Will you be here when I get back?

Of course, I want to hear all about it.

I bet you do, especially about the food. It says here that they’re serving Supreme of Akaroa Salmon, lightly baked, resting on a bed of spring vegetables and clocked in something I can’t pronounce but will be brimming with local fruits. My guess is Kiwi.

That fake British accent is awful. Don’t try it on the Queen.

No cameras are allowed, but I’m taking this tiny one I bought from Seattle when I moved here. It’s too small for anyone to notice.

Don’t count on it.

***

Did you take a picture of the Queen?

No, a guard took my camera. But I got this royal name tag. Look here on the back. Someone wrote my name in bright blue ink.

So, they did. How was lunch?

Late. The Queen and her husband didn’t show up on time, and no one eats until the Queen sits. That’s what the man seated next to me said. We could drink, though, and he’d had five glasses of wine when a very tall man with a loud voice announced the Queen had arrived and we must stand. I tried to help him up, but he was too drunk.

Who is he? I might know him.

He’s the director of a national arts organization – I don’t know which one. He’s from Ireland and doesn’t like the Queen. He came for the food and booze.

How was the food?

Weird looking but good tasting.

Scoot over. I need to sit down. Was anyone else wearing special corduroy jeans?

No, and stop laughing. I’ve had enough of it today. When the Irish guy saw what I was wearing, he slapped the table and said only a Yank would dare to wear jeans to the Queen’s luncheon.

Told you so.

That wasn’t the worst of it. When he squeezed a piece of yellow squash over his salmon, everyone else at our table did the same thing. I thought it was English etiquette, so I did, too. I didn’t catch the joke until a waiter arrived with small bowls of sliced lemons, and everyone passed them to me.

You should’ve known better. I serve courgettes at least once a week, and you’ve never seen me squeeze one.

Well, you’re a New Zealander.

And Scottish.

Yeah, yeah.

Did the Queen speak?

I don’t know. I couldn’t stay with those bowls in front of me and everyone staring, so I went outside.

You could’ve laughed it off.

It wasn’t funny.

You Yanks are thin-skinned.

So, what if we are?

Well, it kept you from meeting the Queen.

No, it didn’t. I was still outside when the front doors opened, and the Queen walked out. I waved to her, and she waved back.

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