In 1986,

A man called Steven wrote me that the Queen is Dead. Only two years after the brief period of dystopian dictatorship, and during a 11-year span of democratic dickship, the news came as quite a shock. However, the Smiths were wrong: The Queen wasn't dead. She was, in fact, in my kitchen.
 Now, not in 1986.

Insisting on being called Liz, she had forced her way into my house to look for a swan. While I was at first annoyed at the intrusion, I was glad on reflection: She owns a lot of swans, and I had often worried she couldn't take care of them all.
 After a few minutes, however, I began to worry: I'd knocked down, killed and then eaten something with my monster truck the night before. That was a bad sentence, I'll clarify: I knocked down and killed the something accidentally the night before, then eaten it. I'd cooked it first: I don't eat roadkill on the road itself: I'm not Mexican.
 I don't know where that racism came from, or what it means, so go ahead and ignore it.
Anyway, I think it could have been a swan: It had been long-necked and white feathered. I mean, it could have been a tiny giraffe returning from a stag-night prank, but I found that unlikely. Besides, it tasted like swan. I think... It certainly tasted like one of the many animals I had eaten that legally I shouldn't eat.
 Actually, it tasted a little like Dodo...
But I digress...
 Actually, I have no idea where I'm going with this. The Queen is still in the kitchen, opening one of my cupboards over and over again. She insists the swan is hiding there, and if she opens the door fast enough, she'll be able to catch him. I've phoned the police, but they tell me there's little they can do. I would raise more of a fuss, but I don't want to draw attention to myself. Any minute now, wildlife officers could burst in and find my Mr Burns-esq collection of endangered animal-based clothing.
 Also, someone might ask how I managed to run down something, then cook and eat it without - at any point - even wondering what it was...