“Incredible!” gasped James King.

It was five o'clock on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

James was in the sitting room eating a banana and chicken sandwich, trying out the new remote controlled helicopter he’d just invented. It flew noiselessly round the room, opening and shutting the curtains, plumping the sofa cushions and pouring lemonade into his glass. A tiny video camera on its underside filmed everything in its path, showing the pictures on a tiny, square monitor screen resting on Jed’s lap.

Dad was in the garden talking to his roses. Mum was singing bits of an opera in front of the bathroom mirror.

James’ eleven-year-old-sister, Millwall, was in the kitchen scoring goals against the vegetable rack, using an onion as a ball. Dad had banned her from playing football in the garden, because she’d destroyed too many flowers and plants.

James was watching his favourite TV programme, The Funky Show, when a news flash interrupted the show.

“INCREDIBLE NEWS JUST IN!” spluttered the presenter. “The entire Royal family has decided to step down. They’ve had enough of being in the public eye and are fed up with talking to people they don’t like.”

“Unreal” whispered James.

“They’ll be moving to Brighton in two weeks time to set up a beachfront café” added the presenter. “It will be called Windsor Warmers and will sell a wide variety of snack foods. We can now go live to the Chief Royal Advisor, Sir Cuthbert Snobbish for more details.”

The spindly body of Sir Cuthbert appeared on the screen, his long face looking solemn and serious.

“The Royal family have insisted that a new king or queen must be chosen before they leave London," he said. "This will be done by way of a national competition, which the Royal family will judge. The winner of this contest will be the person who…..” Sir Herbert looked with disgust at the camera “….best completes the phrase I want to be King/Queen of England because…..in under fifteen words.”

“No way” James gasped.

"All entries must be in by next Saturday at midnight," continued Sir Cuthbert, shaking his head. "The result will be declared at three o'clock the following Sunday. After this announcement, the Royal family will move out of Buckingham Palace and the competition winner and their family will move in.”

A glint suddenly appeared in Sir Cuthbert’s eyes. “However” he said, “If there are no entries or none of them are judged to be good enough, I will become King! This would be far the best option, so I advise anyone thinking about entering the competition to forget it!”

James flicked the TV off and stood up quickly.

“I need a pen and piece of paper,” he said.