I am Queen.
After Lunch.
Just back from Richard's studio. We had lunch together. We laughed, we danced, we sang. We bombarded one another with pillows.
We acted the jubilant heirs. I recalled Sybillenort at the time King Albert died. In Saxony, when man or woman shuffles off this mortal coil, there's always a good "feed" at the corpse's expense. At the late King's castle a "mourning breakfast" was served upon the royal family's arrival from Dresden—a most magnificent repast in the matter of plate and victuals offered, but each had to serve himself or herself, as servants were dispensed with.
This by the new King's special orders—that he might hear himself addressed "Your Majesty" by his kith and kin, a formality usually neglected in the family circle except when two or more of the big-wigs are warring against each other.
"Will Your Majesty have one or two lumps of sugar?"
"May it please Your Majesty—some steak?"
"I hope Your Majesty will allow me to peel an orange for Your Majesty."
Thus at Sybillenort. And at Richard's: