• the queen’s trousers •

• the queen’s trousers •
“Hey, Burtie, what’s you got there? he asked inquisitively.”
“Well, it’s a bleeding thermos, innit. Bit of a cup’a, on a cold winter’s night, to take the shiver off, says the missus.”
“Well, she’s right about that. Whoo, that smell…s’different. What’s in it?”
“Everything.”
“Everything? How could it have everything innit?”
“It’s a special recipe of me own devisement, or as the missus would call it, me own CONCOCTION of devilment.”
“It smells, not bad, but not good.”
“Give it a taste, and don’t dribble innit.”
“Heh, here’s to the Queen’s trousers.”
“And the King’s underthings.”
“Hey, that’s not half bad. What’d you say was innit.”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh, yeah. Still – I can make out something spicy…?”
“Vinegar – and cinnamon.”
“What, together? Just like that?”
“With a modicum of water, or rather, a preponderance.”
“Yeah, and kinda lemony.”
“That might be due to the lemon.”
“And kinda oniony.”
“Due to the onion.”
“And – garlic?”
“There, again.”
“Ah – yes. But, there’s something else, it get’s right up there, right in the nostrils…”
“Sprig o’ rosemary.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do.”
“But, at the end, there’s a whiff, a lingerin’ satisfaction, that reminds me, somehow, of…?”
“Christmas?”
“Yeah, exactly!”
“Bit, o’ nutmeg, and honey.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do. Got a cup, there, Joe?”
“I do.”
“There you go, mate. And one for me. Cheers, mate.”
“To the Kings’s underthings!”
“And the Queen’s trousers.”
~ Tim Burchfield
1/4/15

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