The election had duly taken
place as decreed by royal proclamation. The polling booths had been closed, the
votes counted, the computers turned off-, and the experts and amateurs alike
had collapsed into their beds in disbelief when they had heard the final
result.
The new King
had been unable to sleep that Friday night while he considered yet again all
the advice that had been offered to him by his courtiers during the past
twenty-four hours. The choice he had been left with was by no means simple,
considering how recently he had ascended the throne.
A few minutes
after Big Ben had struck 6 A.M., the morning papers were placed in the corridor
outside his bedroom. The King slipped quietly out of bed, put on his dressing
gown and smiled at the startled footman when be opened the door. The King
gathered up the papers in his arms and took them through to the morning room in
order that the Queen would not be disturbed. Once he had settled comfortably
into his favorite chair, he turned to the editorial pages. Only one subject was
wortfiy of their attention that day. The Fleet Street editors had all come to
the same conclusion. The result of the election could not have been closer, and
the new King had been placed in a most delicate position as to whom he should
call to be his first Prime Minister.
