What being a King feels like

It was another night at work. This time, I was a waiter at a private party. Several days earlier, when my boss was recruiting me for this particular event, he said that the guests had requested that only female personnel should serve them. However, since there were not enough waitresses available on that particular evening, I had to fill in as a honourabale woman. No, no surgery was necessary, thank you.

When I arrived at the crime scene... I mean, the nation, I cast a quick glance at the quest list. Then another, this time slower. At the third peering into the sheet I managed to discern two female names. The other ninety-four were all men. Some kind of a men choir having a reunion. Poor souls, they were so desperate for female attention that they have specifically requested "No boys allowed!" Well, guess who was going to shatter their dreams. That's right, the Czech guy. I am an honourable woman, remember?

The first surprise of the evening manifested itself in that from the nearly hundred guests none were allergic to anything; there were even no vegetarians around. I wonder if this is somehow connected to the singing or to their thirst (look here for more details). Then, to even out my karma, I received a whole table for myself, while the others had one side of the table each. Not that I was complaining though. Having worked as a waiter at Uppsala Castle, I was amply able to keep up with them. What I *was* complaining about though was the fact that some of the singers had lungs only matched by the size of their bellies and their chairs were drawn so far back that they almost touched next table's chairs. It made squeezing between the tables a bit tricky, especially with the lack of any levitational abilities of my part.

The dinner was going smoothly as it gets, hors d'oeuvres out, red wine in, main course in, more red wine in, main course out, dessert... ah, you get the idea. Well, some of the guys were still hungry after the dinner due to the modest-sized portions but I think they got the rest in fluid form. To make it even nicer, the guests were singing. Not the usual Swedish out-of-tune, table-banging singing, mind you. Those fellows were professionals. Beautiful four-voiced canons, Gregorian chants, even the posh drinking songs sounded as if they were sung under the spires of the Uppsala Cathedral, not in our nation. It was amazing.

In the end, the guests sang for the staff. We went into the dining hall in a straight line and bravely faced them. First it was a thank-you song, then the national anthem of Sweden. Now *that* was something I consider myself lucky to have witnessed. Generally I cannot be touched by other anthems except my own country's. This time I received goose bumps all over. And after that, the lights were dimmed and the fellowship dismounted their chairs. They started singing a love song. And very slowly, they approached and encircled our line. After a brief commotion just in front of me (after all, they wanted to sing for a girl, not for a guy) all ninety-six singers got down on their knees and grabbed our hands. The girls blushed immediately, and the guys that had got hold of my manipulative appendages had a hard time not bursting in laugh from the absurd situation, as did I. I felt like a King and every nobleman was swearing an oath of allegiance. The effect was almost ruined, though, when one of them kissed my right hand. His moustache tickled!