“AtteeeeenTION!” Prince George stifled a fake yawn: his prearranged signal to the masses watching on jumbotrons across the nation.

All his life he had attended this annual event, but now he was done towing the royal line. If all went well, things would be different next year.

     This was Great-Grandmother’s one-hundred-and-twenty-fourth birthday. He had figured out it was that blasted song and the “Long live the Queen” claptrap that kept her going. Somehow she mysteriously fed off those words, and consequently back they all came for her birthday, year after year. It needed to stop. “Our gracious Queen” had lived long enough.

     He caught his father’s eye and flinched at his imperial “Conduct yourself in a manner befitting…” frown. George’s gaze flickered to his one-hundred-and-two-year-old grandfather hunched in his wheelchair, whispering to the African violet set on his lap to keep him quiet, spraying it with his drool. How was that for “manner befitting”?

     A dig to his ribs snapped George’s head around to meet his sister’s blue eyes. Charlotte’s unspoken question hinted at sadness. She was too much of a softie by half. But even she understood that it was time for the old duck to toddle off this mortal orb and all that. He twitched her a fraction of a smile. This was it. There was no going back.

     The opening chords of the anthem blasted from the parade grounds, and the royal military choir began to sing, but the sound fell lifeless in the surrounding unresponsive stillness. Puzzled, the choir conductor peered over his shoulder. None of the members of the royal armed forces was singing a note. From palace gates to town squares, pubs and living rooms all over the land, citizens of the United Kingdom, for the first time in the lives, failed to respond to the singing of “God Save the Queen”. The live feed to the room where the royal family watched together, confirmed what George already knew: the populace was with him on this.

     Flicking an invisible speck off of his impeccable military uniform, Prince George hid a grin. A grin that froze when his casual glance toward the Queen found her steely eyes riveted on his, even as her face and figure began to sag like a deflating balloon. She knew.

     He gave her a mock bow, and glimpsed his horrified father looking from the Queen to his son and back again. He would have to be next. Get good old sport Uncle Harry to coax Daddy Wills into one more helicopter flight for old times’ sake. Two birds with one stone.

     Next year in 2051 the birthday candles would number thirty-eight, and the words of the anthem would have changed to “God Save our Gracious King”. Mummy Kate would be Queen of England. Old QE2 would never throw her spanner in those works again.

     Licking his lips in anticipation, he watched the royal medics’ fruitless efforts to rally the crumpling Queen.