London, England April 29, 2011.
Prince William and Kate Middleton have just taken their vows and lining the route to celebrate is none other than Francesca Dijon. An incurable romantic, Francesca cheers along the path of the royal Bentley, careful not to be too overzealous with trying to get a picture on her new upgrade, the LG exchange cell phone.
“I can’t believe they did it. She’s so beautiful!”Francesca gushed to her friend Babbette Champlain, who had accompanied her to the festivities.
“Oui, m’dame.” Babbette agreed in their native French.
“Kate s’est surpasse,” remarked Francesca.
Babbette and Francesca were faculty at the nearby London City College. In their short stay they had bought into all the hype about the royals, but remained avid French Canadian citizens, emphatic about making Quebec, their home, a separate nation. The British, they felt, were not relevant anymore.
They had been standing out there for hours. The Queen’s Guard lined the parade route from Buckingham Palace, keeping the crowd orderly. They were looking good with their shining boots and hats. The British had pulled out all the stops. As the parade of horses and Bentley’s went past, Francesca kept vying for the best picture. Unfortunately she caught the attention of one of the Queens’s guards on horseback.
“You, there!’ he bellowed. Then he motioned for her to move behind the gate. Francesca’s face went white as she did his bidding. Apparently she wasn’t moving fast enough, because now he was sauntering over to her on his brown steed. Francesca looked flustered, but she was now backing behind the guard rail.
“Name, please!” the huge dark-skinned guard asked as he took something out of his saddlebag.
“Damn! I’m not being cited, am I?” she asked, exasperated.
“Indeed you are,” the guard answered back.
“Please, sir, I didn’t know I was hanging out so far. The crowd surged.” Francesca lied.
“Then you’ll stay further back next time,” the guard said. He took Francesca’s information down, then handed the citation to her and rode on.
“I’ll fight this!” Francesca screamed after him. Babbette looked mortified.
“He really gave you that? What arrogance!” Babbette stated.
“No, you were right. I should’ve stayed further back. I don’t have money for this, either.” Francesca sighed heavily.
“Talk to the bloke’s division. They’ll throw it out and it’ll be done!” Babbette showed Francesca the precinct number on the citation and with a smile Francesca said she would take care of it. She then partied into the wee hours of the morning with some Bobbies who had gotten off-duty early from their assignments as additional royal protection.
As Babbette downed drink after drink and her French Canadian brogue became more slurred Francesca asked her bobby friend Guy Seton was his name about her citation.
“Oh, I see you got that citation from Lord Marlton himself!” he said, gulping his liquor.
“Lord Marlton?! He’s a Lord?” Francesca asked, worried.
“No, not really. They call him that because he’s the most arrogant, studious ball-breaker in that division! You’d do best just to go ahead and pay the citation than to argue with him. Say, you’re a fine woman. If I get lucky I’ll pay it for you.” He leered at her, groping her backside.
Francesca pushed Guy away from her only to have him stagger back and crash to the floor, passing out next to her friend, who had landed there just a few moments before.
Francesca was now perplexed by her problem. The bartender came over to her.
“You gotta get your friend out of here!’ he stated.
“Right away! Sir. I’m so sorry!” Francesca answered, as she threw the rest of her drink on Babbette, who stirred. Babbette opened her eyes, and then pushed Guy Seton’s body off of her further because his leg had fallen across hers. Then Francesca helped Babbette up and they ran out of Kelly’s bar laughing oblivious to onlooker’s hostile stares.