The Queen's Corgi

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘What of it?’

‘Well, it’s just that all your other dogs being normal, I’m a bit . . . surprised.’

‘His hearing is just as good as the others. He’s quite normal.’

‘Quite so, ma’am,’ Lord Cranleigh agreed very quickly.

‘Being young, he’s in need of reassurance.’ The Queen took a few steps towards where the men were standing. ‘If we want him to grow up happy and well adjusted, he needs our affection and support. That’s what really matters.’ She spoke deliberately. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Cranleigh?’

‘Of course, ma’am. Without question.’

‘It’s important not to get sidetracked by the superficial.’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘When we make judgements about things based on appearance, instead of on what really matters, we get into trouble.’ She was holding Lord Cranleigh’s eyes firmly, but not without warmth. ‘Our own wellbeing and the wellbeing of those around us depend on being guided by the right priorities, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Absolutely, ma’am. Quite so.’

Julian ushered Lord Cranleigh out of the room and we three corgis made our way back to the Queen.

Winston sidled up to me. ‘That wasn’t about you, by the way.’

‘No?’

‘Her Majesty is always well briefed about visitors.’

‘It sounded like it was about me.’ I was bewildered.

‘All in good time,’ he said enigmatically. ‘Look sharp.’

Early that evening, there was an award ceremony for The Prince’s Trust in the Waterloo Chamber. This was a room usually closed to the public, Margaret told me, as we accompanied Sophia from the Queen’s quarters to the chamber. Sophia shared an office with the Queen’s lady-in-waiting and helped arrange the charitable engagements of senior members of the royal family. While Tara, the epitome of English beauty, was always immaculately dressed with perfectly coiffed blonde hair and an aura of calm

self-assurance, Sophia, a few years younger, was more vivacious and impulsive. Her dark good looks and high spirits livened up the atmosphere at the palace and it was clear that the two women enjoyed a warm friendship.

There was something enigmatic about Tara, however, which Sophia saw as her job to resolve: the absence of a boyfriend. Despite being showered with invitations to social events every night of the week, apparently, for some reason, whenever Tara became involved with an eligible man, the relationship never lasted.

As soon as Sophia announced she was going to the Waterloo Chamber, Winston had sprung from where he’d been dozing beside her desk. ‘Winston is very keen on award ceremonies,’ I observed to Margaret as the two of us followed. ‘Not the ceremony. It’s what happens afterwards. Young ones always think they’re being very daring when they sneak canapés to the Queen’s corgis. Winston takes full advantage.’

The Waterloo Chamber was magnificent, a huge wood-panelled room with an ornate, vaulted ceiling, red and gold carpets and massive oil paintings in gilded frames. A steady stream of visitors was pouring in, with young men awkward in suits and ties plus young women teetering on heels evidently bought especially for the occasion. Glancing about, they seemed overawed by the majesty of the place, as they were guided towards rows of chairs.

For my own part, it was my first public appearance as a Queen’s corgi, one for which I was entirely unprepared. From having been the very least important dog in a house of over twenty and painfully aware of my inadequacies, suddenly I felt very special. There was a ripple of excitement as soon as people saw the three of us strutting across the carpet. Many smiled and pointed. Others tried to coax us to them. From being an outcast only the day before, about to be taken to the terrifying fate of whatever awaited me in the shed, suddenly I was a star! ‘We are Her Majesty’s representatives,’ Margaret had said. Now I understood exactly what she meant! The simple fact of our presence made people feel closer to the Queen herself, giving them the sense that she might step into the room at any moment.

I kept hard on the heels of Sophia and, along with Winston and Margaret, sat next to her in the front row of seats, near a small stage on which several council members of The Prince’s Trust faced the audience. They were, Margaret told me approvingly, all highly-successful businessmen.

One of them, a bouncy-looking man with a mane of silver hair, was soon opening proceedings by introducing, as a VIP guest, a leading expert on happiness. ‘Oh, spare us!’ snorted Winston. ‘A speaker.’

‘I’d like to congratulate every single one of you who is here this evening,’ began the visiting expert, a friendly-looking man with short, dark hair and glinting spectacles, who spoke with what I later discovered to be an Australian accent. ‘Each one of you has not only found your way out of unemployment, but you have completely turned your lives around. Tonight is a celebration of that achievement.’

Several Prince’s Trust committee members applauded enthusiastically. ‘What I’m here to talk about this evening is the more important question underlying what we all do. It’s a question each one of us has to answer in his or her own particular way. But there are some common threads. The question I am talking about is: how can we lead happy and purposeful lives?’

From the silence in the room, the speaker evidently had everyone’s attention. ‘The ancient Greeks didn’t have just one word for happiness, they had two: hedonia and eudemonia. It’s unfortunate that, in everyday English, we no longer make the same distinction because there’s an important difference. Hedonia is happiness we get when we take from the world. Chocolate. Parties. Stuff. It’s all coming from outside ourselves. Eudemonia, on the other hand, is the happiness we get from what we give to the world. The concern we show for others when we offer our time, skills, support. It’s a different quality of happiness that comes from within.’

The VIP expert went on to talk about how the two kinds of happiness differ. How hedonia focuses on me and the pleasure I get. How the focus of eudemonia is on others and the happiness we experience from helping them. How hedonia tends to be short-lived; the more we experience it, the less it delivers. ‘The first slice of cake is one thing,’ he observed. ‘How about the second, the fifth, the tenth?’

At Sophia’s feet, Winston was fidgeting. ‘Amateur!’ he snuffled. ‘But I take his point.’