Competition No 3728

Set by Gavin Ross, 22 April

Raymond Chandler: the Queen Mum's funeral.

Report by Ms de Meaner

An hon mensh to Chas F Garvey for "They'd only come for the bier." £20 each. Peter Norman, the winner, also gets the vouchers.

My first guess was Italian. Men all dressed up in whorehouse drapery, angelic boys singing sad old songs, the whole enchilada with extra Parmesan cheese. Some moist-eyed mobster wanting to give his dear old mamma a big send-off. Stop the traffic, line the streets and look grief-stricken if you know what's good for you. Then someone mentioned Phil the Greek and things clicked into place. The old Windsor lady, the one who'd looked the whole East End in the face and not been the first to blink, had thrown in the monogrammed towel at last. I felt sad, and wondered why. Would she have given a two-bit tin tiara for me, I wanted to ask as I stood and watched the parade, like the loyal subject I am when it suits me. The firm was out in force: Phil himself and his boy Charlie, like walk-ons from HMS Pinafore sacked for wearing over-fancy costumes. Anne, got up like a traffic cop. And young Eddie, still taking himself seriously, still looking a patsy. Then I walked on. Some of us had work to do.

Peter Norman

Victoria Street, Westminster. It was nearly ten and thousands of people were queuing over the bridge. Each with a cast-iron alibi, I bet. Funny how they all remember where they were. Just like with Kennedy. This was a tough one. Three gone in the space of less than five years. There had to be an explanation. I jumped the queue, slipped into the Abbey, looking for clues. Was there a gangland connection? "Now I can look the East End in the face again," she'd said. A Mafia link? That "mother to us all" rumour. Was it all a marketing ploy, say, for a compilation CD, or a collection of Elton John's greatest elegies - Goodbye, Yell a Big Crowd? Walking towards the station, past New Scotland Yard, I bought an overpriced news magazine and a coffee. Who would be sick enough to want to benefit from this? Then I saw it. Page 58. "Win vouchers for any Tesco store. To mark the passing of this much-loved lady . . . 200 words by 4 May." Somehow, instinctively, I looked up at the 7th-floor window.

David Silverman

Billy Backstairs, Phil the Greek, Charlie and his boys, and Eddie - bald as a brick and half as handsome - they were walking behind her real slow. I felt uncomfortable. Too many uniforms. Still, the old girl's kicking off like that meant one problem less to solve. I'm no soft-hearted slob, but she was more than a bit of high-class fluff with a passion for horses. "Mr Marlowe, I've got a little job for you," she'd said, handing me a gimlet with a nice burst of charm. Her gimlets were kosher: half gin, half Rose's lime juice and nothing else. She played by the rules. She made them. Now she was bumping along in her flag-draped box with a Queen-size trinket on top, bound for the big sleep under a marble slab. A hundred Scotsmen were piping the long goodbye. She'd played her last scene, but I knew who was directing the show.

Anne Du Croz

No 3731 Set by John Crick

We want the confessions of a famous hellraiser on his well-spent youth - tidying up OAPs' gardens, clearing litter, etc.

Max 150 words by 24 May (to appear in issue dated 3 June) E-mail: comp@newstatesman.co.uk