The palace was crowded with lords and ladies and lackeys, breathlessly – well, they were still alive – awaiting the royal proclamation. The bearers carried King Tide to his throne.

As the king sat, a hush fell. He raised his hand:

“I can’t find my shoes.”

The cries of lamentation were deafening, reverberating through the castle.

“He can’t find his shoes!” Never had royalty suffered more.

As the wails died, a small voice piped left of the throne – your left, not the king’s left.

“You’re wearing your shoes, sire,” said the youngest page.

The king looked down.

“Oh, yeah. Carry on.”