SF: Thank you so much for receiving me Ma’am.
How are you?
QE2: (Sharply)
What’s it to you?
SF: (Taken
aback) Well, um, I was just being courteous, enquiring after your well-being.
QE2: Don’t you know the date?
SF: (Warily)
Of course I do, it’s the 26th of January.
QE2: Exactly.
Awstralia Day. And you know what happens today. All those Awstralians check my health.
SF: That’s
kind of them.
QE2: Nothing
of the sort. It’s about gambling.
SF: Well, Australians do like a flutter, that’s
true.
QE2: But
they’re betting on how long I’ll live! Those dreadful republicans want me to
die so they can become independent. Such impertinence. Don’t they understand
they simply can’t survive without our tutelage? I’d have them all transported
if they weren’t already there. What do you suggest I do?
SF: Open a By Appointment to Her Majesty betting
shop?
QE2: Ha
ha, very funny Dr Freud. Prince Charles would just love that, especially short
odds. He did a gambling course when he went to school in Awstralia all those
years ago. But I have a better idea. I will ban everyone—particularly the
Awstralians—from calling me Ma’am. From now on it’s Mum. No one wants their mother
to die do they?
SF: (Hesitantly)
I wouldn’t bet on it.
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