Camilla confides that she is keen to return to the days when she was able to get
away and hang out with her old friends without being in the public glare. I am filled
with apprehension. She already shows too little concern for the decorum that her
position demands, and it is only the good will of the kind people in the media that
keeps news of her activities off of the front page, or page 3 if one includes the
episode in Marks and Spencer, Stroud in July where she insisted on trying on a bra,
and refused to go into the fitting room in case she was secretly filmed. Silly tart.
“We’re going to Richmond next week, honey, official engagement” she tells me, “surely
no one would notice if I nipped into town on the tube and did a spot of shopping?
All Charles will be doing is patronising a load of local officials and watching them
squirm as he talks about saving some tree or other in Mali. I won’t be missed.”
I consult my diary. “No, you daft mare, that is Richmond, Yorkshire. They don’t have
a shop selling anything more glamorous than a monogrammed Wellington boot within
“That’s very confusing! When Charles is King, the first I’ll get him to do is to
institute sensible place names. Honestly, sweety, how are we meant to find our way
around when we have two places with the same name? I spent 3 hours in New Brighton
looking for the nudist beach last week. It really is tiresome.”
I continue to read my copy of the yet unpublished autobiography of Andrew while she
prattles on for an hour or six. I don’t mind helping Chas by doing this, but I’m
buggered if I’m going to listen as well. I nearly give the game away when I laugh
out load at Andrew’s story of the queen mother and the watermelon, just as she is
talking about her favourite hat or some such shite.
At last! Thanks Vicus, I was about the start nagging you - and we don't want that