With thanks for their inspirational ideas to: Alan Bennett: (The Uncommon Reader) ans Sue Townsend: (The Queen and I)

The Queen sighed and  switched off the television. She leant back against the pillows and reflected. 

 This Easter Sunday had been an extraordinary day. First, there had been  church.

  Not in the customary setting of St George's Chapel, and led by the red clad, richly vestmented clergy of the Royal Peculiar, but a plain, white clad Archbishop of Canterbury, leading the Eucharistic Mass from the kitchen of Lambeth Palace via the television!. No live choir but sections of recorded music. 

The Queen felt she had gradually become accustomed to the unusual intimacy of close ups of the Archbishop, in fact, found it - well - interestingly, quite moving. That is, until a rather elderly toaster on the shelf behind the prelate caught her eye. 

She had mentioned it to Philip. He had harrumphed and offered the idea that she might like to purchase a new one for Mrs Welby. "Yes", she mused, "I suppose I could-perhaps should. After all I am the Head of the Church of England. Philip had agreed and asked where lunch was being served. 

After lunch there had been a drive in the park in the gig. Philip no longer took the reins, so handed her onto the well padded seat and mounted beside her stiffly.  Ronald, the very able coachman, masked, but as always deeply respectful, stood well back   although above the mask his grey, extremely bushy eyebrows turned him, thought the Queen, into a Denis Healey reincarnation.  He bowed slightly and mounted on to the driving perch. The Queen became mesmerised watching his gentle, gnarled hands guiding the soft leather reins and the snorting horses, their heads and necks bobbing  and stretching. Philip nodded off beside her. 

The park, on a warm Spring day, green, full of birdsong and blossom was quite deserted. Uncanny.

Later, there was no tea time welcoming of the children, George, Charlotte and little Louis. No Easter egg hunt, in fact no Easter eggs at all, leaving her, she had to admit feeling a little disgruntled.

Now, in the comfort of her room, the evening light gone and her bedside lamp glowing, she thought of the day and the broadcast of Easter from a kitchen. Perhaps there was something rather lovely about that. Christmas in a stable, Easter in a kitchen. She was thankful, though, that her own broadcast to the nation had not been from a kitchen. she thought again of the toaster. What make would suit the Archbishop?  Should it be Morphy Richards, or Russell Hobbs? Then wasn't there another shiny brand Dual-something. Catherine would know. The Queen decided on a morning telephone call to the Cambridges

 And now she had just switched off the television after seeing the image of a frail looking prime minister, sending out his message of thanks to the NHS from Chequers.

It had been unsettling. He looked a different man from the boyish, tousle haired blonde, clumsy, Old Etonian who had so self confidently leant over her hand on his appointment. 

Then she recalled that on leaving, he had backed away and knocked over a Chippendale side table and in  scrabbling to replace it had trodden on Max the corgi, who yelped and snapped at his trousers, while he muttered an incoherent apology and fled the room. Perhaps, she thought generously, he wasn't quite so self confident as he wished to appear, and anyway the table was not damaged.

She sighed again, and switched on the bedside radio, leaning back against the pillows and enjoying the sound of a recording of the Massed Band of Guards playing the Radetsky March. Dear Radio three.

How long, she wondered,  shall we have to hear from Dominic -what was his surname- Cummings? No that wasn't quite right. It was the Dominic of whom Philip, half asleep while watching the five o'clock briefing, had muttered something that sounded like' swivel eyed moron.'  Though it might have been, 'switch channel four on.'  He loved The Simpsons.  Raab-that was it. Rather like the politician of years ago , Butler, Rab Butler. Such different times!  

The march finished and the Queen waited for the next item to be announced. The measured tones floated above her head and she missed the title, but heard a liquid run of piano notes filling the room.  Alfred Brendel's inimitable style. Probably Beethoven then. Thinking slowed and ceased as the music softened the day's sounds and images, pushing them to the fuzzy edges of her mind.

She was next aware of daylight flooding the room and a very clear voice on the radio-oh dear, had it been on all night?  The beautiful received pronunciation, calmly announcing that they were interrupting the programme for an important announcement from Chequers

Goodness, not a relapse, was the Queen's first thought- or worse!  

 It is announced from Chequers that the prime minister, Boris Johnson is to join the Labour party.

To be continued..  

With thanks to the original ideas of Sue Townsend (The Queen and I) and Alan Bennett (The Uncommon Reader)