The Duke pulled back the curtains and the light spilled into function room six. It was the east wing’s largest chamber.
Balloons were wheezing their last gasps of helium as they fell slowly from the ceiling. Streamers were bunching up like multicoloured tumbleweeds on the floor. Hiding in corners and under upturned chairs and tables.
Henri smirked, and winced. His head was killing him.
Too many ‘one last shots’ had done him in. Trying to be a man of the people had seemed a good idea at the time.
So had the Zoom party at his gaff.
Normally he let the people have their fun and he enjoyed a nice cold cremant at home - the one not in the city, away from the rowdy crowds who loved him for a) giving the permission for strapping on a big night and b) for allowing the majority of the population to convalesce the next day.
Last night’s shenanigans had gotten a little out of hand, however.
It had, at times, resembled a saloon brawl...you know like from the Wild West, and while that may seem rowdy, to be honest it never gets that wild in Rambrouch.
A chandelier lay pulled from the brackets, the shimmering shards scattered like stars in a broken sky.
Henri smiled once more as he pressed the buzzer on the intercom, he needed to find his suit for the parade. He needed some help to be fighting fit for the numerous press engagements and photo shoots.
The last thing he needed on a day like today was to have to complete a number of public engagements. He could do without microphones wafting abut his face and the clicks of shutters closing on a million snaps.
His head was pounding. Duck Sauce’s Barbara Streisand echoed in his brain box. On a loop.
Henri just wanted to say what he was thinking. He wanted to lie down, have a glass of water. Maybe head to the lake. Right now, Henri wanted to be one of the people and enjoy the day of celebrations just like the the others.
His birthday, the real one, was in April, for goodness sake. Not that anyone cared then. April was not as marketable month as June. Not as sunny, not as likely to be dry...or hot.
It had always been this way. Duty before fun. The more the revellers became excited for the celebrations, the less Duke had wanted them to happen.
He didn’t want to be Cinderella, not at all, glass slippers were not his thing. Now, perhaps donning a pair of Yeezy’s and kicking back on a sunny terrace while not having to work on this day of days was more appealing than ever.
He loved the fact that the people loved him for ‘organising’ the parties AND for the day off that followed. This was Luxembourg’s equivalent of The Purge. That one day when the population (and those from near and far) could let loose and dance in the streets.
Not this year, though, the streets were empty. They were still noisy. Private parties echoed in the city and smaller communes as stereos were turned up all the way to 11.
That was why the Zoom party had seemed like such a good idea. The Duke could get a good vibe on with the family from socially approved distances AND still manage to enjoy each other’s company.
It was a shame that the new intern had set the stream key to public rather than private and the link spread on the ‘net like wild fire.
Henri was enjoying a little digital to and fro with little Charles when suddenly his screen windows filled with profiles of half cut revellers. Oi oi Savaloy! Letz Go Henri, Letz Go!
As with any impromptu night ‘out’, the surprise BIG ones are the best.
The Duke, resisted at first, remembering his duties but was soon busting a groove and throwing out shapes. Nearly every action a new meme for the country to cheer and chuckle with.
Life through copy and paste.
The disco ball still spun, the shafts of light bouncing off glasses half full.
It was then that Henri noticed the laptop. It was then that he saw the screen was filled with his image. The feed still streaming.
It was then that Henri remembered that he was dressed in only his nightgown. And it was then that he felt the breeze.
It was then that his blood ran cold and he began to sweat bullets.
It was then that the Duke regretted the previous night’s actions. The conga with Teresa, the flaming Sambuca.
And with his gown open and fluttering behind him Henri made for the exit. Maybe no one was watching. Maybe they were all in various states of disrepair, splayed on sofas and floors.
Never again, he thought.
Never again.
*for legal reasons we are obliged to point out that this is completely made up. Maybe,
