Denise pushed herself off the sofa to switch channels. The TV remote was long past repair but her husband would not replace it.
“Kenny, if you don’t mind, I’ll watch the BBC for a while. Alastair Bruce is too posh for me.”
“No, it’s not O.K. Sky News is a far better service. Anyway, I like Bruce. He’s giving the Jubilee some ‘gravitas’. And while you’re up, you’d better put the kettle on.”
But her husband had derided her plan for everyone to eat as they watched the Royal Family on their river cruise.
“Now it’s too late,” she crooned to herself in the kitchen. “Even with my children and baby grandson around me, I’m not to be queen of my household. Not once on a diamond day.”
So as their single daughter, Nancy raced into the house to yell that Jack and family were pulling up outside, she heard a thud and then a crash. Her father was glued to the seat of his greasy old wing-chair, slap-bang in-front of the television. And Mum?
Denise was on the kitchen floor, floating in a wreck of cake crumbs, broken china and tears.
“I’ve had enough,” she announced most regally. “I’ll stay with you to-night, Nancy – and your Dad can tidy up himself.”
(Copyright, Natalie Irene Wood – 15 June 2012)