• 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? 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…?”
“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



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