THE CAMERA AND THE CROWN

THE SCREEN-TIME SHOWDOWN

"Queen finally staging intervention for Grayson's screen time," Father Thomas whispered into his headset, narrating the scene for the 24/7 live-documentary feed.

The Queen Mother stood in the centre of the nursery, her arms crossed over her royal sash. She wasn't just wearing her "I’m disappointed" face; she was wearing the "I’ve-contacted-the-IT-department" face. Behind her stood the King, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, possibly fighting a dragon or doing taxes.

"Grayson, darling," the Queen began, her voice like velvet-covered steel. "The Royal Eye Doctor says your pupils are shaped like hexagons. You’ve been on your phone for forty-eight hours straight. We are staging an intervention."

Grayson didn't even look up. He was frantically swiping. "Not now, Mother! I’m in the middle of a 'Cancel-Off' with a Swedish teenager who said my forehead is too shiny. I have to destroy her brand before my afternoon nap!"

The Digital Extraction

With the grace of a woman who had handled international treaties and unruly toddlers, the Queen reached out and plucked the diamond-encrusted phone from Grayson's hand.

"NOOOOO!" Grayson shrieked, his body arching as if he were being exorcised. "My soul! You’ve stolen my Horcrux! I’m fading! I’m becoming... analogue!"

"You are going to play outside," the King boomed, finally finding his voice. "Without a ring light. Without a hashtag. You are going to interact with... nature."

"Nature is poorly lit, Father!" Grayson sobbed into a silk handkerchief. "And there are bugs! Bugs don't have PR teams! They just crawl on you without a signed release form!"

The Barefoot Tragedy

Grayson was marched out to the Royal Garden. For the first time in his life, he wasn't wearing shoes—because Rihanna had convinced him that "shoes are just foot-coffins for the spirit."

"The grass is judging my pedicure, Rihanna," Grayson hissed, stepping gingerly on the lawn.

Rihanna was nearby, burying a digital watch in a hole. "The earth needs to know what time it is, Grayson. If the soil doesn't know it’s 2:00 PM, the worms will wake up late and the universe will stumble."

Grayson rolled his eyes. "At least you’re not staring at a screen. But this 'fresh air' is disgusting. It smells like... oxygen. It’s very distracting."

Barnaby’s Victory Lap

Barnaby trots up to Grayson, looking smugger than a cat in a cream factory.

"WOOF! BARK-BARK." ("Look at you. Unplugged. Unfiltered. Unbearable. How does it feel to be a regular seven-year-old for once? You’ve got a grass stain on your knee. That’s #RealLife, kid.")

"I will ignore you, Barnaby," Grayson sniffled, trying to find a signal in the bushes. "I am a digital god in exile. I am like Napoleon, but with better hair and a significantly smaller waistline."

"WOOF." ("Napoleon didn't cry because he couldn't check his t****k comments. Also, I buried your backup phone in the rose garden. You’ll never find it.")

Grayson’s eyes went wide. He dropped to his knees and began clawing at the dirt. "You beast! You hairy, non-influencer! Give me my connectivity!"

The Queen watched from the balcony, sipping tea. "See, dear? He’s finally playing in the dirt. So wholesome."

"Mother!" Grayson screamed from below, covered in mud and rage. "The dog is a cyber-terrorist! I demand an audience with the Ministry of Defence!"