I told her that the Queen is the only
person in the country allowed to eat
a swan. She looks up at me quizzically
and asks why anyone would want
to eat a swan. The Queen can do
what she likes, I reply – she’s the Queen.
So does that mean the Queen actually eats
swans? she asks. I’ve no idea, I say –
it’s just that she’s allowed to, if she wants.
So why can’t I eat a swan? she asks.
Would you want to eat a swan? I reply.
No, she says, but I want to be allowed to eat
a swan. I tell her that she is my queen, and for
the rest of my life I will fight for her right
to eat a swan. It’s not fair, in this day and age,
that just one privileged person, through a mere
accident of birth, is allowed to eat swans
whilst others are not. I will move mountains
to ensure that she, my queen, grows up in
a world where she can eat a swan, a world
where swan-flesh is democratised. There will
be no more barriers to this delicacy. Or maybe,
she says, the Queen shouldn’t be allowed to
eat swans. Maybe no one should be allowed
to eat swans. I think you’ve got a point, I say,
whilst sharpening my carving knife.
