Turncoat

My friend came for tea wearing new red trousers with a smart blue and white top and I knew I was supposed to compliment her but I didn’t, because the colours were Union Jack bright and I’d already had an argument with my husband, who called me a bigot because I’d refused to watch the coronation and I couldn’t bear her to agree with him, for us to have another heated conversation about letting the Royals go extinct, so I ate too many raisin-studded scones, especially baked for her, had indigestion all evening and woke in the early hours, watched the luminous dial of the wind-up alarm clock ticking time away before it ran down and thought about the thirty-five endangered British bees, how bees preferred purple to red, white and blue, how I would plant more lavender and verbena for them, how at the coronation of the Queen Bee, I would wear my finest black and gold robes, bow in homage to all her subjects, and then, in the dense musical hum near the comfrey, with a fly-past of bumblebees, carpenter bees, miner bees, and honey bees I would make my oath of allegiance to the only monarchy I believed needed saving.