NOT MY CUP OF TEA does not read as tribute. Beneath a crown set with rubies, Elizabeth wears a slouched tan check vest studded with dozens of mismatched pins — a police badge, flags, novelty buttons, one flatly reading UNFAIR — the accumulated clutter of gift-shop monarchy rather than the polish of state portraiture. She holds a chipped-looking teapot and a saucer bearing an ordinary decorative horse, souvenir-shop china standing in for royal china. The title is the tell: an idiom for polite refusal, applied to a woman whose entire public function was constitutional neutrality — she was famously never allowed to say what she actually preferred. Elizabeth reigned seventy years, trained as a wartime mechanic at eighteen, and by convention offered no opinion on apartheid, Ireland, or her own family's crises even while her presence shaped all three. The badges pinned across her chest look less like honors than like everything the public projected onto her in her silence — souvenirs of an image she was required to hold still for. The crown is real. Everything below it is what people made of her instead.