Countdown to the royal divorce - part 5

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 25 miles.”

“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I continue to read my copy of the yet unpublished autobiography of Andrew while she prattles on for an hour or six.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.