What does the Queen Mother do when she's in her viscount son's domain? The counters, the sinks, the tabletop, the floor -- you know, basic queening.I can't stop her. I can't dissuade her. I'm no slob, but her eye finds fault with the surfaces, and she will not rest until such deficiencies are corrected to her standards. I need a bigger iron she tells me, and a bigger trashcan. I need those disinfecting wipes. I need more soap. I need a Swiffer. We have to go to the Wal-Mart.
Upon her first visit a decade ago to my Texas abode, the awful truth of bachelor living confronted her the moment she opened the freezer. Three empty cartons of ice cream stood at glazed attention. I still occasionally hear of that encounter. The Royal Father is content to collapse on the sofa in front of Turner Classic Movies, but the Queen Mother won't rest until the chrome is shiny, mentioning comments in passing about the need for Comet.
As I searched for a new domicile in Tucson, she asked if a washer and dryer were part of the residence. She could care less about floor space. I'm content to walk out the door and down the sidewalk to the on-side laundry, feeding it quarters like treats to hungry dog, but Her Majesty will continue to politely prod me for the extra amenities. Any visit is not considered official until she asks whether or not the towels need to go back with her for proper fluffing and freshening. Ditto for the bathmat.
Her eyes are spared the ugly indignities of cleaning a musket in the bathtub, the black water dotting the porcelain and streaming into the drain, of swabbing with patch after powder-stained patch, leaving the room lightly fragranced in sulfur and Bore Butter, the latter easily mistaken for toothpaste.
Back at the palace, she must fight the occasional battle with ants. Crawling out of the cupboard, they parade along the tile grout in a show of strength rivaling a Soviet May Day procession. Her Majesty is not impressed.
"I put that stuff down everywhere I saw them!" she proclaims. "I sprayed the heck out of everything!"
Out come the baits and aerosol, and all the Queen's forces strike swiftly. Victory is assured, even if it takes longer than directed on the package. Her subjects are relieved.
Her loving Viscount marvels at her ability to get a tub cleaner than he ever managed. Such is the strength of her realm and the dexterity of her hand, sure to drag a finger along the top of the TV set and admonish with dry exasperation, "You need to dust."
All in good time, Your Royal Highness, I reply with the courtly reverence. But I challenge you to abstain from the towel rack for just one day, this Sunday in your honour, so that you may reflect upon those you brought into this world, even if they do not quite know how to tidy it.
Happy Mother's Day.
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