If the Queen was like my Gran

If the Queen was like my Gran
She’d be retired,
Living in a little bungalow
Near the sea
Determined to stay
Independent.

She’d tell people that
Her husband was a navy man.
That she’d ruled the commonwealth,
The great British empire.
That people used to call her Ma’am
Or Your Majesty
And she’d know her age
To the second,
Exactly.

She’d tell stories of the people that she’d met,
The world leaders she used to know.
She’d eat salmon and cucumber sandwiches
And drink tea
With “just a splash”
Of whisky.

She’d sigh as Philip
Crumbled digestive biscuits down his cardigan
And squashed them into the chair.
She would straighten his tie,
And he would grumble,
Tell her to stop fussing
And turn the sound up on the TV.

She’d be busy,
Keeping up appearances,
Never leaving the house without
Matching handbag and shoes and clip on earrings.
Because pride is everything.
At home
Sitting in a fog
Of cigarette smog,
She’d choreograph her family from the chair
By the fire
In her dressing gown
Warm,
Comfy.

Someone would visit twice a day
To check everything was OK.
Listening to tales of yesterday,
They’d look at her, smile and pat her hand.
Call her dear old Liz
And sometimes she’d like it,
And other times she’d be offended,
Knowing they were smiling in sympathy,
And she’d let them believe she was
Just a mad old lady,
And go off on a tangent
About the colour yellow,
Before her eyes glazed over,
And the window to her life
Closed again.

If the Queen was like my Gran.