The Royal Breakfast
There was a frantic¹ scurry² among the Palace servants when orders were received from the
Queen that a twenty-four-foot giant must be seated with Her Majesty³ in the Great Ballroom⁴ within
the next half-hour.
The butler, an imposing⁵ personage named Mr Tibbs, was in supreme⁶ command of all the Palace
servants and he did the best he could in the short time available. A man does not rise to become the
Queen’s butler unless he is gifted with extraordinary ingenuity⁷, adaptability⁸, versatility⁹, dexterity¹⁰,
cunning, sophistication, sagacity, discretion¹¹ and a host of other talents that neither you nor I possess.
Mr Tibbs had them all. He was in the butler’s pantry sipping¹² an early morning glass of light ale when
the order reached him. In a split second he had made the following calculations in his head: if a
normal six-foot man requires a three-foot-high table to eat off, a twenty-four-foot giant will require a
twelve-foot-high table.
And if a six-foot man requires a chair with a two-foot-high seat, a twenty-four-foot giant will
require a chair with an eight-foot-high seat.
Everything, Mr Tibbs told himself, must be multiplied by four. Two breakfast eggs must

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