The princess and the queen pdf download

Welcome to The Princess Who Saved Herself, a children's book written by comics writer Greg Pak, based on the beloved song by internet superstar musician Jonathan Coulton, and illustrated by artist Takeshi Miyazawa. The Princess Who Saved Herself reinvents the princess myth for a new generation, telling the story of an awesome kid who lives with her pet snake and plays rock 'n' roll all day to the huge annoyance of the classical guitarist witch who lives down the road.

There is balm for the soul, fire for the belly, a cooling compress for the fevered brow, solace for the wounded, an arm around the lonely shoulder - the whole collection is a matchless compound of hug, tonic and kiss' Stephen Fry As heard on BBC Radio 4, the essential prescriptions from William Sieghart's poetic dispensary Sometimes only a poem will do.

These poetic prescriptions and wise words of advice offer comfort, delight and inspiration for all;. She doubted if Violet had a jar of lentils she could borrow.

The room went quiet. There was silence. Diana dropped her eyes. She called upstairs but there was no answer. She looked outside into the sadlooking back garden, but the only sign of life was Harris ingratiating himself with a cross-breed alsatian belonging to Mandy Carter.

The two dogs circled each other. The little and the large, the commoner and the aristocrat. Bare bulbs showed as Hell Close prepared for night. They regularly sent their small children to the Indian shop for late night groceries. Why keep a dog and bark yourself? But Diana would not be placated. Throwing on a silk parka, she strode out in her cowboy boots to search Hell Close. She finally located them playing battleships in front of the gas fire with their grandfather at Number Nine.

She watched through the window until Harry saw her and waved. Prince Philip was wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown. A tin of baked beans with a jagged open lid stood on the William III silver table. When the kitchen cupboards had been thoroughly cleaned out, the women broke for tea and Silk Cuts. He was an unusually tall man with powerful shoulders and huge feet and hands. But Wilf Toby was not a gentle man. He had chronic bronchitis and his constant fight for breath made him irritable and morose.

He feared death and lived each day timidly, as though it was to be his last. He felt that Violet ought to pay him more attention. It was Wilf, breathing next to the party wall. Wilf looked at Diana and it was love at first sight. All the women Wilf knew had hard, rough-looking faces, as though life had battered them mercilessly. As Diana took the newspaper from him, he looked at her hands. Pale, long fingers with rosy nails. Wilf longed to hold those fingers. Would they feel as smooth as they looked?

He scrutinized Violet, his wife of four years. How had he ended up with her? But he knew how. She had hunted him down. No respect. She spoke beautiful, she really did.

The presence of a man in the house subdued the women. Even Violet modulated her voice as she folded pages of The News of the World and lined cupboards and drawers. Diana saw flashes of headlines. The Governor of the Bank of England has appealed for a period of calm. How could he ever eat again?

Then Shadow woke from his temporary sleeping place on the velvet sofa and his screams drove his mother and the other women from the house. When Charles and Elizabeth arrived back at Number Nine, they found that Tony Threadgold had booted the front door open and was planing down the edge. All three were eating untidy jam sandwiches, prepared by William. They had obviously forgotten he was there. He took her arm and escorted her into the living room. The gas fire was out so he rummaged in his pocket, found a fifty pence piece and put it in the meter.

The flames popped alive and the Queen leaned gratefully toward the heat. But when, after fifteen minutes during which Tony swept up the wooden shavings and smoothed down the edge of the door with sandpaper, Charles was still blundering about in the kitchen in a futile search for tea, milk and sugar spoons, Tony went next door and asked Bev to put the kettle on.

The Queen stared into the gas flames. The Queen closed her eyes. Louis was long gone, but he was still influencing events. Beverley came in with a tray on which stood four steaming mugs of tea and two glasses of bright orange pop. Thick striped drinking straws bobbed about in the lurid liquid. A doyley-covered plate held an assortment of biscuits.

Charles took the tray from Beverley, then hovered around looking for somewhere to place it. The Queen watched her son in Created by Rish for www. He handed out the cups and glasses. Her fleshiness disturbed him. For a split second he saw her naked, draped in gauze, gazing at her own reflection in a mirror held by a cherub.

A Venus of the s. What was the maiden name of Queen Mary, his great grandmother? Yes, that was it. See to it, will you? Ready, Bev? Tony went home, taking his tool box with him.

It had been a crap day all round. Beverley stayed on for a while and showed Prince Philip how to heat a saucepan of shaving water on the stove. She explained that the handle of the pan should be pointed away from the front of the stove.

His two sons, their mouths stained orange, crept up and held his hands. When the water started to bubble, Beverley demonstrated how to turn the stove off.

She left the ex-Royal household gratefully. Why bother? It stinks. I refuse to acknowledge its existence. I shall stay in-bloody-doors until I die. Lying in bed. Now, leave my breakfast tray and close those bloody curtains and go out, would you? Boiled eggs, toast and coffee. The Queen closed the curtains, shutting out Hell Close, and went downstairs to call Harris in. She was worried about Harris.

He had started to hang around with a rough crowd. Harris did nothing to discourage them, indeed he seemed to positively welcome their marauding presence. She got out of bed and put on the warm dressing gown that Fitzroy, her eldest son, had bought her for her eightieth birthday. Philomena disapproved of both.

She offered a prayer to God. Should she have the fire on now, in the afternoon, or tonight, while she watched television? It was a decision she made every day except in summer. She dressed slowly in many layers. Then went to the wardrobe where her winter coat hung.

She put it on, wound a scarf round her neck, put a felt hat on her head, then, fortified against the cold, went into the kitchen to make her breakfast. She counted the slices of bread: five, and the remaining eggs: three. She shook the box of cornflakes. Half a Created by Rish for www. She bent down and opened the door of the refrigerator. She pulled out the plug and the fridge became silent.

She took out a lump of cheese and, with great difficulty because her hands were knotted and painful with arthritis , she grated cheese onto a slice of bread and put it under the grill. She waited impatiently, resenting the gas being used. Eventually she removed the cheese on toast before it was properly melted and sat down, in her hat, coat, scarf and gloves, to eat her half-cooked breakfast.

Through the wall, she could hear the Queen Mother laughing and furniture being scraped across the floor. She chewed each mouthful carefully, making it last. She would have liked a second slice, but she was saving up for a television licence.

The Queen Mother was laughing at the ridiculous smallness of it all. It could be a kennel for a large dog. He was carrying a standard lamp under one arm and a silk shade under the other. The bungalow was truly appalling, cramped, smelly and cold. How would her mother manage? She had never so much as drawn her own curtains.

Yet here she was putting a stupidly brave face on this truly awful situation. Spiggy arrived on his familiar errand and was met with cries of extravagant greeting. A digit had been missed out; Barker had meant to write nineteen feet. The servants had seen to it — their final act of service: those sober enough to stand. Spiggy removed the instruments of destruction from his tool bag. He was once again the hero of the hour. The Queen Mother promenaded in her back garden, her corgi, Susan, at her side.

The black woman next door watched her from her kitchen window. The Queen Mother waved, but the black woman ducked away, out of sight. The Queen Mother needed people to love her. People loving her was plasma; without it, she would die.

Being adored by the populace was only a small compensation. She saw Spiggy look up from his labours. There was adoration in his eyes. She engaged him in conversation, enquiring about his wife. The Queen handed round delicate china cups and saucers. Spiggy watched closely to see how the ex-Royals handled the tiny cups. They inserted their forefingers inside the little handles, lifted the saucers and drank.

But Spiggy could not get his forefinger, calloused and swollen by years of manual work, to fit inside the handle of his cup. He looked at their hands and compared them to his own. Shamed for a moment, he hid his hands in the pockets of his overalls.

He felt himself to be a lumbering beast. Whereas they had a shine on their bodies, sort of like they were covered in glass. Protected, like. He grabbed the cup with his right hand and drank the meagre contents. A youth with a shaved head stood hunched and shivering in the icy wind. He approached Charles. We left ours behind, Created by Rish for www. Something was puzzling Charles.

How did this rodent-faced youth know that they had no video? He asked Warren. Looked in the winder. No red light. You should draw the curtains. You got some good stuff in there; them candlesticks are the business. The youth obviously had a strong aesthetic sense.

William III. What a dork! And this bloke was lined up to be King and rule over Warren? Charles felt in the pockets of his trousers.

He had a fifty pound note somewhere. He found it and handed it over to Warren Deacon. He struggled through the small crowd, holding the carton to his chest, sweating with the effort. When he got to the front door without dropping his heavy burden, the small crowd of women and pushchaired toddlers cheered ironically and Charles, flushed and proud, nodded to acknowledge the cheers, something he had been taught to do since he was three years old.

He staggered into the kitchen with his burden and found his mother washing up at the Created by Rish for www. She was using one hand. Princess Margaret was leaning against the tiny formica table, watching the Queen. Her own household was in chaos. She had nothing suitable to wear. The trunk containing her daytime casual wear had been left in London.

Her entire Hell Close wardrobe consisted of six cocktail suits, suitable for show business award ceremonies, but nothing else. She was blocking the light and taking up valuable space. There was work to be done.

Spiggy put his head round the door and spoke to Princess Margaret. I am Princess Margaret to you. The Queen put the kettle on.

She thought that Mr Spiggy deserved a nice cup of tea. Whereas all his relations were fat. At Christmas his family could hardly squeeze into their living room. The Queen hummed a tune as they waited for the kettle to boil and Spiggy caught the melody and whistled as he worked on the hall carpet. A Royal British Film Performance.

She was jealous. Her kitchen had been full of laughter once, when the children were at home: Fitzroy, Troy and her baby Jethroe. The food those boys ate! She really needed a bulldozer to fill their mouths: always coming to and from the market she was.

She could remember the weight of the basket and the smell of the flat iron as she pressed their damp white shirts for school every morning. She dragged a chair towards the high cupboard where she kept her packets and tins. She climbed onto the chair and put the cornflakes packet on the top of the cupboard.

Bringing this soup forward, that cereal back, until, satisfied with the adjustments, she lowered herself down from the chair. By late afternoon, quite a crowd had gathered round the box van, hoping to see the Queen Mother. Inspector Holyland sent a young policeman to move them on. PC Isiah Ludlow would rather have been sent to guard a decomposing corpse than have to face these hard-faced Hell Close women and their malevolent-looking toddlers.

Move along, please. He repeated his order. None of the women moved. Was it the same as a pavement? Stay in control. The pregnant woman took it as a genuine question. PC Ludlow saw with horror that tears were now dripping down her round, flushed cheeks.

Was this what his instructors had called a dialogue with the public? I want my Les! PC Ludlow tried to explain to the hysterical woman that, though he knew about stitch-ups in the locker room, he had never been a party to one himself. He touched the sleeve of her anorak. What he now saw was a policeman gripping the arm of a hugely-pregnant young woman who was struggling to be free.

He had read accounts of police brutality. Could they Created by Rish for www. PC Ludlow was now in the centre of the little mob of shouting, shrieking women. He hung onto the sleeve of the pregnant woman, whom he now believed to be called Marilyn, according to the shouts of the other members of the mob.

Reams of paper stretched ahead of him. Charles stood on the edge of the group. Should he intervene? He had a reputation for his conciliatory skills. Charles saw Beverley Threadgold slam her front door and race across the road. Her white lycra top, red miniskirt and bare, blue legs gave her the look of a voluptuous union flag. His face was pressed into the pavement, which stank of dogs and cats and nicotine. She was sitting on his back.

He could hardly breathe; she was a big woman. With a mighty effort he threw her off. He heard her head hit the ground, then her cry of pain. This man seemed to be making a frenzied attack on my regulation police overcoat. The riot was eventually stopped at eighteen hundred hours. The Gainsboroughs, Constables and assorted sporting oils were sold to the landlord of the local pub, the Yuri Gagarin, for a pound each.

Mine host was refurbishing the smoke room, turning it Olde Worlde. The paintings would look all right next to the warming pans and horns of plenty stuffed with dried flowers. It would look nice over the fireplace; shall I fetch it, Mummy? Night had long since fallen. The Queen was tired, she craved the oblivion of sleep.

It had taken forever to undress her mother and prepare her for bed and there was still so much to do. Ring the police station, comfort Diana, prepare a meal for Philip and herself. She longed to see Anne.

Anne was a bulwark. She could hear inane studio audience laughter through the wall. Perhaps the nextdoor neighbour would stay with her mother until she went to sleep? Philomena answered the door wearing her coat, hat, scarf and gloves. While she was in the house, there was to be no drinking, gambling, drug taking or blasphemy.

The Queen Mother agreed to these conditions and the two old women were introduced. Philomena rummaged about in her memory. I was sorry when he was took by God. Did George beat you? Charles was allowed to make one phone call. Diana was emulsioning the kitchen walls when the phone rang. Tulip Road Police Station here. Your husband is on the line. I was painting the bathroom. Anyway, I had my Sony on and missed all the excitement. You being arrested, thrown in the black maria; but I let the boys stay up and watch the rest of the riot.

Oh, that boy Warren came round with the video. I paid him fifty quid. Was it a piece of arcane criminal jargon? Had Mr Christmas committed some unsavoury type of sexual offence? If so, it was disgraceful that he, Charlie, was being forced to share a cell with him. Charles pressed against the cell door. He kept his eye on the buzzer. There was one just like it in Hell Close.

William and Harry played in it. So I want it, OK? Post Office or summat like that. Charles and Lee covered their ears against the earsplitting volume. Charles pressed the buzzer repeatedly, but nobody came, not even the deferential policeman for the tray. They could hear other prisoners shouting for mercy.

But there was worse to come. Charles had often wondered how he would stand up to torture. Read Online Download. Hines by Jim C. Great book, Ember Queen pdf is enough to raise the goose bumps alone. Add a review Your Rating: Your Comment:. The Mermaids Madness by Jim C. The first edition of the novel was published in , and was written by Jean Plaidy. The book was published in multiple languages including English, consists of pages and is available in ebook format. The book has been awarded with , and many others.

Please note that the tricks or techniques listed in this pdf are either fictional or claimed to work by its creator.