Countdown to the royal wedding - Part 9

In response to all of the requests for further details, I draw my tired digits across the keyboard.
What a week it has been. As you can imagine I have been on the telephone for about eighteen hours a day. Most of it dealing with trivia, I will have you know.
Here is a sample from about 5 hours ago.
16:15. Charles. “Do you need any duty free from Italy?” I have told him countless times over the years that I don’t smoke or drink, but I am afraid that it just does not register. He is so preoccupied with trying to be helpful.
16:18 William (7th time today). “I am a witness, yeah?”. “Yes, Bill, that’s right. You only have to watch,” and then under my breath, “staying awake would be an advantage, too”.
16:23 Camilla. “Do you know a good fancy dress hire shop, (not too far from Windsor), the Ann Boleyn costume that I had on hold is already hired out for Saturday.” “For God’s sake, Cammy,” I implore “fucking well behave yourself, for once. Just put on a sensible fucking frock, and sensible fucking shoes, and speak when you are fucking spoken to. There’s enough bad publicity about this damn silly event without you adding to it. And it is a civil ceremony, so there is no need for anyone to give you away, and Will Carling was not the best choice anyway, if you want my opinion.”
16:29 William “Windsor registry office, yeah?” “That’s right Bill, just turn up and grin. Can you manage that?”
16:32 Phil. “Anyone chance of fixing another funeral for Saturday so we have to postpone again?” I deny all knowledge of influencing things in Italy. He seems to think that we are still living at the time of the Borgias, and that cardinals can be bribed to slip a drop of strychnine in the papal crème de menthe. “Forget it, Phil,” I say, quite crossly, “this is probably the last time that one of your lot gets married, so just do your frigging duty for once.”
16:47 William (I have just had time to make a cup of coffee, and watch it grow cold while he witters on about this that and the other). “I have to sign something, yeah?”. “Yes, Bill, your name, and someone will have a pen, so you don’t need to worry about that”. “I just write ‘Billo’ then?” “No, Bill, your full name, you soft sod. William Windsor Mountbatten.” “How’s that spelt then?” “W-A-L-L-Y W-I-T-L-E-S-S M-O-R-O-N.” I have reached the borders of my tolerance. “Is that enough letters for Mountbatten?” he asks – not much gets past him. “Yes,” I say, “it’s like Cholmondley is pronounced ‘Chumley’”. “OK, right, yeah”.
And so forth.
I am not going. I am not going to the bloody funeral either. Last time I had to stand next to Kenneth Kaunda for three hours, and I think he had consumed about 7 pounds of garlic the night before.
And have you tried to find somewhere to park in Windsor on a Saturday? Utter madness.