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22 minutes ago, Coss said:

" are they just waking up in NZ ? I shall never understand this."

Due to a combination of health issues, a phalanx of grandchildren on visiting manoeuvres, and also due, to having a bed companion again, after three weeks absence, I am awake and champing at the bit, at 4 am these days, such is my quiet life.

I do find the resident gentlefolk on this board, a welcome respite,  over a pre-dawn coffee.

May the 7th I guess?

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Which is how I came by a transcript of Charlie's diary, from the days before the Coronation, time travel....


The First Garter of the Royal and Divine Order of Cutting Up the King’s Toast into Soldiers for the Monarchal Boiled Egg - I do believe he has a name, but no one knows it - stood by, as I waited for him to dip one of the soldiers into my egg.

I waited forever. The egg got cold.

Damned if I was going to make a fuss of it though, what with everything else on my plate.

“Are you all right, dear?” Camilla asked.

“The Coronation on Saturday … Such a lot to do … Can’t think straight … I’m so hungry.”

“Eat your egg.”

“But what with?”

“A soldier. Look how nice Stan has cut them up.”

“Who’s Stan?”

She waved her fork at the First Garter. Goodness knows how she found out his name. She really has brought a new lease of life to the Palace.

But, I whispered, “he hasn’t dipped a single one of them in my egg.”

“That’s not his job.”

“Well, whose job is it?”

She reached out and held my hand. “Yours, darling,” she said.

The Coronation, and now this! Do I have to do everything myself?

The Good Son came for tea.

“Hello, Pa,” he said.

“How nice of you to come,” I said. “Have you come far?”

“No, not very.”

“Jolly good.”




He stirred his cup. “The Coronation,” he said.

“Yes. Quite. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

“Of course, Pa.”


“And is … he coming?”

“Let’s not talk about him.”

“It’s best not to, I agree,” he said.

I stirred my cup. “I do enjoy these chats,” I said.

“As do I, Pa.”


Stupid Son phoned this afternoon. I took it in my office.

“Thrown to the wolves ... I fled my home country with my wife and my son fearing for our lives … Forgiveness is 100 per cent a possibility … The ball is in your court …”

I put the receiver down, and watered the garden.

I returned to the office two hours later just as it was getting dark, and picked up the receiver.

“Eaten by wolves … The status quo feel as though it’s better to keep us as the villains … Dedicated to trying to trash my wife and myself … The door is always open …”

I closed the door, and went to bed.


Studied the invite list.

“Who,” I asked, “is Chris Hipkins?”

No one knew.


“The Coronation tomorrow … Such a lot to do … Can’t think straight … I’m so hungry,” I said at breakfast.

Camilla was away. I felt alone, abandoned. I put my head in my hands. When I took them away, I looked down at my plate, and saw a soldier of toast sticking out of my boiled egg.

I wolfed it down and felt ever so much better. The Coronation - honestly, I can’t wait. I’ve been waiting for tomorrow all my life. It’s all going to go so well. A spectacle. A show. Colour, noise, a good bit of pomp. The world will be watching. We’ll give them a show.

I polished off the egg and toast, and sat back with a cup of tea.

“Will there be anything else, Your Majesty?”

“No, all good,” I said. “Cheers, Stan.”


...Steve Braunias


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  • 3 months later...

So out of date in a 2017 poll for Road Gritters in Doncaster Yorkshire, ome of the winning entries was “Gritsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Anti-Slip Machiney” the other was “David Plowie”

Honorable mentions go to “Brit Balls of Fire”, “Spready Mercury” and “Basil Salty”

Previous gritters have been names by poll, Brad Grit, Gritney Spears, The Subzero Hero, Mr Plow and Usain Salt.



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