Dinner with the Intrepids and my sister tonight. Between courses, they decided to move a repainted chest of drawers into the spare room.
“Shouldn’t this be the point when we chill out with a cup of tea and an After Eight?” I asked.
“Quite right,” said my sister, while my Dad bashed the chest into the corner of the sofa. “Put the kettle on!” she beamed. I trudged out to the kitchen.
I bet this doesn’t happen in the Royal Family. I can’t imagine William making the tea while Camilla and the Duke of Cornwall start assembling flat-pack furniture on the carpet. It’s quite possible of course, that those people don’t even know that flack-pack furniture exists, let alone the pain of hunting for scattered screws, or accidentally kneeling on a screwdriver!
Anyway, I warmed the teapot.
“These drawers don’t fit!” called my Dad from the other room.
“They have to; they came out!” came the reply. I heard the sound of the drawers clattering out in the next room, and my Dad sighing exasperated. Meanwhile, the tea glugged out of the pot and into the cups.
I’m sure Prince William can make tea. It might not be tangy-tea in a Kit-Kat mug with a squashed tea bag floating in it, and it might be posher than my Mum’s Sunday-best floral cups, but I bet he can, even if he doesn’t often. I like to think that they all can really, but of course, don’t have to.
I carried in the tray and sat down.
“Any After Eights then?” asked my sister, cheekily.
“Not unless you brought them,” I said.
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