The lights went out at Buckingham palace and the queen was not pleased.
She waved in the dark for an aide. The man screamed. He wasn’t used to the royal we poking him in his non-royal eye.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the queen said.
“It’s budget cuts,” the aide said. “There is a cash flow problem.”
“We are not amused,” the queen said. “How can we fix it?”
“Might I suggest selling some of the accumulated palace bric-a-brac,” the aide said. “It could be a like a royal lawn sale.”
“Fine,” the queen said.
When the sun came up, servants began moving items onto the lawn. There were gifts from foreign dignitaries, some royal baubles, a box of Churchill’s cigars.
While the queen oversaw the setup, a servant pulled Prince Charles from the corner where he had been standing.
“What about him?” the servant said. He used a white cloth to brush some dust that had accumulated in Charles’ hair and to flick some cobwebs from his ear.
“He’ll never sell on his own,” the queen said.
“Maybe we could put him on one of the thrones and make it a package,” the servant said.
The queen guffawed. “No one will believe that. Here, put him behind this Louis XVI writing desk.”
The servant looked at the frowning prince and the desk combination. “Are you sure you want to do that?” he said. “I mean, this is a really nice desk.”
“Everything must go,” the queen said.