Deleted Notes & Queries Response - How much does it cost to change the British monarch? (part one)
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| image generated by Craiyon |
The Guardian is apparently no longer happy to host my comments on their site.
I am replying here instead because it is too good a writing exercise to give up: How quickly can you go from a prompt, a blank mind, and a blank page to a finished piece? And how good can you make it?
This blog is obviously not affiliated with The Guardian. Its reference to a question that appeared in Notes & Queries is presented here under the terms of fair use.
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This piece was written prior to the death of Queen Elizabeth II
How much does it cost to change the British monarch?
In July, 1964, Ronald Wren found himself deposed from what he had regarded as a secure position within the civil service, following the internal restructuring of his department.“'Curtailment' is how they referred to it,” he recalls.
As a man in his mid-40s, whose work experience could be best summed up as monotonously-clerical in nature, his prospects were sketchy. Unable to find a new job, he resigned himself to returning, unannounced, to the family farm in Dorset, where he intended to throw himself on the mercy of his parents and his two estranged brothers, who had remained there to work the land, all the while nurturing a deep-seated resentment of their siblings who had flown the coop.
“It was a Sunday evening,” he recollects. “I was packing up my possessions, because I couldn't afford to stay at my lodgings beyond the end of the month. There was a very authoritative knock at the door, which I took to be the landlord. When I opened it, I was greeted by a well turned-out, and very well-spoken man.
“I told him right away, if he was here to sell me something then he was barking up the wrong tree. He informed me that he wasn't a salesman. He mentioned my place of work and how I had proven myself to be a reliable employee. He said that he had a proposition and asked me if he could come in. He was carrying a leather satchel under his arm, with the royal coat of arms on it. I think he deliberately moved his hand, so that I could see the crest and be reassured that he wasn't aiming to cause me any trouble.
“I invited him in. I was about to ask whether I could get him a cup of tea, when he removed a cheque from his bag and placed it on the table in front of me. It had been made out in my name to the sum of £1000, by a man named Richardson.
“He told me that his benefactors were seeking private individuals who would make small investments on their behalf. It could be land, or property, artwork, or antiques. Anything, just so long as it was legal, ethical, and likely to increase in value over the long-term. I would be paid on a monthly basis, according to my performance. The budget placed at my disposal for making investments would also increase or decrease according to my success.
“Well, I pressed him on the matter. When I mentioned the royal coat of arms, he informed me, obliquely, that there were certain costs associated with the transition of rule from one monarch to the next, and that these needed to be offset and planned for well in advance. I thought, a thousand pounds isn't going to put much of a dent in those kinds of overheads. Then it occurred to me that, all over the UK, there were people just like me who were being asked to do the same thing. Before you ask, I never met any of them. We were the world's largest affiliation of silent partners.”
“So you took the job?” I said.
“What else could I do in my situation? I was stony broke. I was given a PO Box address to send documents, along with a phone number to be called in emergencies.
“My first investment was a small company called Tinsmiths Thin Motor Oil. The business occupied the same land as a pub called The Three Crowns that was just down the road from my parent's farm. I thought the crowns were a good omen. Also, there was a family connection. My mother made a supplementary income as a medium. She discovered that, if you sprayed Tinsmiths into the air, the vapour would assume the vague form of people or objects that had previously occupied the space. It's called post-molecular bonding. She used it to trick her clients into believing they were seeing ghosts.
“Tinsmiths was very versatile. I used it in my oil fly – it's a mechanical, water-driven fishing lure that dispenses liquid bait. I've got one that used to belong to Ted Hughes. It was engraved for him by Sylvia Plath and he wore it around his neck for luck whenever he went on a fishing trip.
“I bought several paintings by Kenneth Alliston that proved to be very good investments. The worst investment I made was 20 acres of what turned out to cowed woodland, that I purchased unsighted. It was undergrown, as a the result of poor soil conditions, and adversely sculpted by the elements. It looked like it was shrinking from the raised hand of God.”
“When did you stop?” I asked.
“2006. It was very anticlimactic. No retirement party.”
“And what, in your opinion, will happen to all these investments?”
“I assume, when the Queen either steps down or passes away, they will be auctioned off. Whether that will be public, or done piecemeal in private, I couldn't say.”
“And how much do you reckon you made?”
“Well, I was working with budgets close to a million towards the end of my career. I think what I made will cover the rent of Westminster Abbey.”
Before I left, Wren sprayed some Tinsmiths over the area where we had been conversing, until our seated apparitions took form.
“I've lived my entire adult life as a ghost,” he confessed.
I hope this is of help.
“It was a Sunday evening,” he recollects. “I was packing up my possessions, because I couldn't afford to stay at my lodgings beyond the end of the month. There was a very authoritative knock at the door, which I took to be the landlord. When I opened it, I was greeted by a well turned-out, and very well-spoken man.
“I told him right away, if he was here to sell me something then he was barking up the wrong tree. He informed me that he wasn't a salesman. He mentioned my place of work and how I had proven myself to be a reliable employee. He said that he had a proposition and asked me if he could come in. He was carrying a leather satchel under his arm, with the royal coat of arms on it. I think he deliberately moved his hand, so that I could see the crest and be reassured that he wasn't aiming to cause me any trouble.
“I invited him in. I was about to ask whether I could get him a cup of tea, when he removed a cheque from his bag and placed it on the table in front of me. It had been made out in my name to the sum of £1000, by a man named Richardson.
“He told me that his benefactors were seeking private individuals who would make small investments on their behalf. It could be land, or property, artwork, or antiques. Anything, just so long as it was legal, ethical, and likely to increase in value over the long-term. I would be paid on a monthly basis, according to my performance. The budget placed at my disposal for making investments would also increase or decrease according to my success.
“Well, I pressed him on the matter. When I mentioned the royal coat of arms, he informed me, obliquely, that there were certain costs associated with the transition of rule from one monarch to the next, and that these needed to be offset and planned for well in advance. I thought, a thousand pounds isn't going to put much of a dent in those kinds of overheads. Then it occurred to me that, all over the UK, there were people just like me who were being asked to do the same thing. Before you ask, I never met any of them. We were the world's largest affiliation of silent partners.”
“So you took the job?” I said.
“What else could I do in my situation? I was stony broke. I was given a PO Box address to send documents, along with a phone number to be called in emergencies.
“My first investment was a small company called Tinsmiths Thin Motor Oil. The business occupied the same land as a pub called The Three Crowns that was just down the road from my parent's farm. I thought the crowns were a good omen. Also, there was a family connection. My mother made a supplementary income as a medium. She discovered that, if you sprayed Tinsmiths into the air, the vapour would assume the vague form of people or objects that had previously occupied the space. It's called post-molecular bonding. She used it to trick her clients into believing they were seeing ghosts.
“Tinsmiths was very versatile. I used it in my oil fly – it's a mechanical, water-driven fishing lure that dispenses liquid bait. I've got one that used to belong to Ted Hughes. It was engraved for him by Sylvia Plath and he wore it around his neck for luck whenever he went on a fishing trip.
“I bought several paintings by Kenneth Alliston that proved to be very good investments. The worst investment I made was 20 acres of what turned out to cowed woodland, that I purchased unsighted. It was undergrown, as a the result of poor soil conditions, and adversely sculpted by the elements. It looked like it was shrinking from the raised hand of God.”
“When did you stop?” I asked.
“2006. It was very anticlimactic. No retirement party.”
“And what, in your opinion, will happen to all these investments?”
“I assume, when the Queen either steps down or passes away, they will be auctioned off. Whether that will be public, or done piecemeal in private, I couldn't say.”
“And how much do you reckon you made?”
“Well, I was working with budgets close to a million towards the end of my career. I think what I made will cover the rent of Westminster Abbey.”
Before I left, Wren sprayed some Tinsmiths over the area where we had been conversing, until our seated apparitions took form.
“I've lived my entire adult life as a ghost,” he confessed.
I hope this is of help.
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| image generated by Craiyon |
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