You would be hard pressed to find a more agreeable, soft-spoken woman than yours truly, except on those occasions when I am replaced by my alter ego, the Queen of Sheba, she who must be seated at the table of her choice. It’s possible she always lurked within me, but I never consciously brought her forth until I was well into my forties. Here’s how it happened. (Turning into the Queen of Sheba or King David, as the case may be, can be quite useful so pay attention. Instructions are included.) My husband was a photography hobbyist. He exhibited his enthusiasm by filling a garage with cardboard boxes containing ancient equipment: enlargers, lenses, tripods, reflectors and, of course, many, many cameras. Two of our friends happened to be presidents of the Christopher Lee fan club in the US. Remember the actor Christopher Lee? Dracula? The Mummy? Count Dooku? He usually played a villain, a very handsome and very tall villain, the man you loved to fear. Apparently the biographer in Florida who was writing Mr. Lee’s life story wasn’t using the photographs to Mr. Lee’s satisfaction. When he expressed his frustration to our friends, they suggested that they knew just the right photographer to solve the problem…my husband the cardboard box hoarder. An appointment was scheduled and the address was given. Since we didn’t know what sort of photo shoot this would be, my husband packed up most of what he owned and loaded it into our jalopy. Then we headed to a highrise in Beverly Hills, the kind with marble flooring, a mahogany counter for the Concierge/Guard, and an elevator operator. Thinking this was going to be a work outing, we dressed in appropriately shabby clothing. As soon as we walked in, I felt like Eliza Doolittle when she was still selling flowers and her face was dirty. We obviously didn’t belong there. However, our names were on the guest list so the Concierge/Guard was reluctantly forced to allow us entry, which he had to do over and over again because of all the trips back and forth from the jalopy to the elevator carting armfuls of junk. Since I couldn’t flee in disgrace after the first ride up to the Penthouse, I had to think of something that would allow me to return without apologizing to the elevator operator for my existence. The solution descended upon me from some celestial throne. I needed to tell myself I was the Queen of Sheba, and keep repeating it inside my head with every step I took. So in I marched with my second load of garbage, chin held high, a superior certainty on my face, chanting silently “I am the Queen of Sheba, I am the Queen of Sheba,” from the front door to Mr. Lee’s entry. It worked. My aura of superiority overcame my shabby attire. When a new doorman joined the Concierge behind his magisterial station, I could hear him asking who we were. The Concierge replied, “Photographers doing some work for Mr. Lee.” Not beggars, mind you. Photographers. Attitude carried the day. So there we were, sitting in a living room surrounded by cardboard boxes, and in walks this huge man. I mentioned Christopher Lee was tall, right? Did I mention six-foot-five tall? What was even more startling was that he looked exactly like Christopher Lee. It was surreal. He charmingly put us at our ease as he apologized for his tardiness (lunch on the Lot) and that he had but an hour or so to spare before he had to leave again (a movie on the Lot). However, he was quite clear about what he wanted done: we were to take photos of photographs. Really? Pictures of pictures? All those boxes and what we really needed were poster boards and masking tape, which we didn’t bring? Fortunately, Mr. Lee found some in the den where he kept his coffin. We set up a work center on his kitchen counter. I taped photos onto poster boards and propped them up against a canister. Meanwhile, my husband set up his tripod, with his butt up against the refrigerator, ready to snap 100 pictures in 45 minutes. The whole thing was very professional. As I said, Mr. Lee was gracious and charming. He felt it would be rude to leave us in the kitchen so he stood to my left, entertaining me with the story of his life as I frantically slapped, taped, and shoved one photo after another in front of his sugar container. My nerves were getting frayed. It had been hard enough to convince myself I belonged in that building by divine right, harder still to schlep all the things we didn’t need, and now I was supposed to prep 100 shots while pretending to be equally gracious and nice to the giant who was yammering in my ear. I vacillated between, “OMG, I’m talking to Christopher Lee!” and “OMG, I need him to stop talking and go away NOW!” Eventually, he decided enough photos were taken and he had to reluctantly excuse himself. His servant would see us out. A few weeks later during dinner, the kitchen phone rang. I answered it, listened to the deep, seductive tones on the other end of the line and said “One moment please.” Holding the receiver toward my husband, I said, “It’s Christopher Lee. He wants to talk to you.” Ignore the phone call for a minute. We’ll get back to it, but I want to keep my promise regarding instructions about turning into His or Her Royal Highness. You know the first method: shoulders back, chin up, silently intoning “I am the Queen (or King) of Sheba.” The second trick requires a prop. You need a shawl or a big scarf. Throw it over your left shoulder and arm and stand rooted in place like a statue of Julius Caesar before he got stabbed. Eventually, people will do your bidding. For example, you want your party of five to be seated at the table for six, not the table for four. The waiter explains he can’t seat you there. Look at him pleasantly, recall your mantra, and stare off into space, waiting. Resist all attempts to be seated elsewhere. If necessary, calmly repeat, “We prefer a table for six.” (Note the Royal We.) After finishing your dinner at the table for six, remember to leave a large tip. Now, back to the phone call in our tiny kitchen where four people were squeezed around a table for two: “It’s Christopher Lee. He wants to talk to you.” My daughter stared slack-jawed and whispered, “Are you serious? Is that the Real Christopher Lee on the phone?” I nodded and handed the receiver to my husband. My daughter whispered again, “Why is he calling US? What does he want?” The trip to Mr. Lee’s had been a terrific learning experience, but I didn’t think I needed to repeat it. “Something about some photographs,” I shrugged. “Can you pass the potatoes?”