In Competition No. 3270, you were invited to submit a short story entitled ‘The Queue’.

As well as inspiring this challenge, the queue to file past the coffin of Queen Elizabeth II during her lying-in-state in Westminster Hall spawned countless jokes and memes, obsessed crowd psychologists and became the top trending topic on Twitter. It now has its own Wikipedia entry.

Commendations go to Paul D. Amer and Paul Freeman; the winners earn £25 each.

Alone, Dmitri hobbled to join the queue, his arthritic bones aching and his aged eyes tearful. He could see only the shuffling throng ahead of him. The Mausoleum was still out of sight. Two, three, four hours, who knew? All Dmitri knew was that he had to pay personal homage to a great man who had led the nation in peace and war.
Powerful emotions mingled in the old man’s mind till they demanded expression. He touched the sleeve of the man in front of him and poured out his admiration, pride and sorrow.
‘Stalin? No, you’re wrong, comrade –’
Dmitri was shocked. Was the man an enemy of the people, a Trotskyite or worse?
‘This is the banana queue.’
Dmitri mentally weighed the choice, then decided to stay put. It was a long time since he had seen a banana, and after all Stalin wasn’t going anywhere.
Basil Ransome-Davies

‘So, this is a queue,’ said Alice. ‘I never thought to see one. It is well named, for it is just like the mouse’s tail.’
‘Move along, if you wants a place!’ grunted someone.
Alice found a Pig-Policeman right behind her.
‘Please,’ said Alice, ‘what are they waiting for?’
‘Why, Miss, to get to the very end, of course,’ said the Pig-Policeman.
‘But for what reason?’ asked Alice. ‘What is the very end?’
‘The reason is,’ said the Pig-Policeman, ‘they don’t want to miss nothing. And what is the very end? Search me!’
‘I shall ask one of them,’ said Alice.
‘There’s no sort of use in asking,’ said the Pig-Policeman. ‘None of them knows neither. Now, Miss, if you wants a place…’
‘Certainly not!’ said Alice. ‘I think I dislike queues more than anything!’
‘Very well, Miss!’ said the Pig-Policeman. ‘But remember – you might miss something!’
Ralph Rochester

By the last day we seemed to have been in the queue all our lives. Singing and picnic-sharing had curdled into silent pilgrimage. People were reluctant to hold places for loo breaks, and a pair of queue-jumpers were dragged back to luggage drop. At Swarovski, where two single files started, I slipped into the left channel. My wife came alongside, and a strip of black nylon webbing separated us. ‘See you the other side of security, darling.’ The mazes spiralled us apart. As I dropped our water bottles into the bin, I saw her taking off her belt and shoes at a distant station. I undressed into the beige trays and stood naked for judgment as the posters instructed. A guard waved me through. ‘You self-assessed at Swarovski so you’re good to go. Down the ramp.’ Doors swished: a zing of brimstone cut through the oily smog of duty-free perfume.
Nick MacKinnon

Tuesday week: Armageddon. A miraculously operational telephone receiver swings off the hook, a final call placed to the final Help Line by the last, now fatally irradiated, caller. There is an answer. ‘Your call is important to us and all our advisors are busy. Your call is at position 704,489,597, progressing inexorably if at unpredictable speed towards an interaction. Please have your five memorised passwords, the maiden name of your grandmother and the name of your least favourite geography teacher ready for required security checks. Reflect that those in front of you in the queue do not have to hand all, some or any of these details, slowing the queue in which you currently occupy position 704,489,957. Your call is important to us as all calls are important to us, the net effect being the sense of unimportance you are experiencing, for which we apologise while insisting we can help.’
Adrian Fry

We’re toeing the line when we line up, and we’re queuing expertly on cue. We line up for the goals we imagine, and we queue as if dreams might come true. We’re here for the line that can lead us to the queue for the place we should be to line up for conquest and power, and to queue with the will to be free.
We line up in not strictly straight lines, and our queues aren’t as queer as some folk. We’re lined up for the queue to the line where we’ll queue to be in on the joke. We’re lined up for more of the same old, and we’re queuing to learn some new tricks. We’re lined up for serious matters, and we’re in this queue just for the kicks. We each got in line for a birthplace, and we’ll queue in due time at the Styx.
Chris O’Carroll

It would take about 14 hours, according to the man giving out the coloured armbands for the lying-in-state, but she had come a long way and she needed to get at least close to the woman who had been there all her life. Her daughter had brought her down to London but had left on business of her own. She moved easily with the queue, gathered that the nearby group of fellow-queuers had come from Wolverhampton, and had a dim memory of having been there once. Some kind of formal dinner?
The night passed, the queue thinned, and she wondered briefly why Constitution Hill was on the route. The need to stand near the draped coffin seemed less urgent now as she continued onwards and upwards, as if leaving London behind. The sun got ever brighter and to Elizabeth the ascent seemed to last into eternity.
‘Welcome,’ said the voice.
Brian Murdoch

No. 3273: answering back

Anthony Hecht wrote ‘The Dover Bitch’ in response to Matthew Arnold’s ‘Dover Beach’. You are invited to supply a poem addressing a well-known poem of your choice (please specify). Please email entries of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator by midday
on 26 October.