The Queen’s Gin

The TV is on in the bedroom. It’s been an emotionally challenging day. I’ve worried about things I can’t control: people who’ve lost their jobs; parents who can’t cope with their children; women stuck in a house with abusive, drunk husbands; people who are lonely and mentally fragile; women who have just had babies or lost babies for whom there is no support; people who aren’t allowed to be with their loved ones when they are sick or dying; the destruction of the economy; neighbours reporting people for breaking the guidelines; my broadband speeds. Weirdly, I’m not worried about a virus or death. I’m almost ashamed to tell you that. It marks me out as different and being different is a dangerous place to be when the world is as it is.

The TV is playing adverts; it’s amazing how quickly they change. Tea adverts show people sharing a cuppa through Skype (other messaging platforms are available - I know, I’ve tried them all and they all lag and try to convert the sound of a flute to speech), cleaning products adverts fill our screens and Supermarket adverts sound like public health warnings.
There is an advert for dog toys. Some people will sniff and think that this isn’t essential but dogs who can only be walked once a day (who are used to two long walks) will get very bored and start to bite people if you don’t play with them.
“Dogs have hands too,” the advert says, “Keep them clean with....”

The next thing I know I’m imagining dogs singing, “Who let the humans out,” for twenty seconds while washing their paws with this new product. It’s tricky for them to get in between the pads but it’s necessary if we are going to stop this thing. Death has to be cured and if anyone else dies it will be your fault for walking down the path by the sea wall with your dog that hadn’t washed his paws. What are you doing walking at the edge of the world anyway? Didn’t you see the sign? CCTV - £30 fine per walk!

Then Boris Johnson appears on the screen, looking slightly more pink and disheveled than normal. He is self isolating at home, in front of a bookcase of heavy political tomes and his collection of rare Enid Blyton stories: The Naked Mole Rat and the Cabinet. He hasn’t been very ill, he says and he has  spoken to Prince Charles who, apart from rosacea and sausage fingers (which he had before) is now perfectly healthy. They talked about the Queen, who hasn’t been seen, live in public since the end of February. The public fear for her safety, Boris says. She is 93. No Prime Minister can have a 93 year old die on their watch. Prince Charles has been to see her and has taken a home video to show us all. The screen cuts to the Queen, at home at Windsor Castle. She is wearing a pale blue silk suit and tiara and is sitting by her telephone table in her favourite Parker-Knoll recliner chair. On the table there is the telephone that we saw her use in the photo and a bottle of gin. In her hand is a cocktail glass filled with dark liquid and a cherry on a stick.
“Charlie dahrling,” she says in her best impression of Olivia Coleman, “So nice to see you. Give Mummy a big hug.”
“I’m not sure if I should, what with this Coronavirus whatsit,” the voice the other side of the camera says.
“Don’t be silly. I’m the Queen. Anyway, I have my own little medicine.”
She laughs, a tinkling glass sound and raises her drink towards the screen.
“Mummy, it’s only 10am.”
“It’s five somewhere in the world. Anyway, that’s why I’m drinking this. It’s Dubonnet and Deaths Door gin. I’ll save the Nolet’s martini for tea time.”
She picks up the bottle on the table and gives it a little shake.
“Oh dear, son, it’s getting a bit on the low side.”
“We can’t have that. Don’t worry Mumsy, I’ll sort it.”
“There’s a good boy. We will make a King of you yet. Oh, and I’m running low on salted peanuts too.”
The screen cuts back to Boris, who is now wearing a white rabbit onesie and looking very serious.
“And that folks is why we need you to do your bit. There will be on the spot fines for anyone breaking the rules. The number scrolling at the bottom of your screen is for you to report your friends, neighbours and loved ones. It doesn’t matter what you report them for, the rules change hourly. The very fabric of our country is in your hands. Exorbitant gins to  animate the vitality of our sovereign are paramount if we don’t want to cross the rubicon.”
The screen goes black.

Birds start to sing.

Our gin collection seems fine

Oh dear. You are going to report me, aren’t you? I’m going to the tower. Off with her head.