I am in the middle of writing my report on the Winter Olympics for the “Mogadishu Mercury” by the blue telephone ringing. It is Camilla. I settle down to listen to what I suspect will be several hours of her moaning about not being in the limelight.
“It’s not as if we haven’t all got diaries, duckie”, she commences, “but who wants to know about your holiday in
“Is there any chance of reading your diaries in the tabloids in the coming months, you old ratbag?” I enquire.
“It would be a damn site more interesting if they were”, she retorts, “I have just written 4 paragraphs on the tattoo that Sophie Wessex has on her arse, and I skipped the less savoury details, such as what Cliff Richard was doing with his fist.”
I don’t bother to talk to Charles, it never helps either of us much.
I was just snuggling up with a cup of cocoa and the Morning Star, when William is the next telephonic interrupter. “Hey ho, Bill, how’s it hanging?” He is preoccupied. “This diary thing, yeah, you just have to write down what you have done each day, yeah?”
“Yes, Billy boy, but don’t use the same diary that your secretary uses to write down what you are going to be doing, get a new one”. Pause while future head of state tries to accommodate the concept of more than one book.
“OK, I see, and then do I get to sell it to the newspapers?”
“Yes, Bill, but you will only get lots of money for it if you exaggerate, and concentrate on writing about sex. With women rather than with yourself, if you want my advice.”
I expect to see the fruits of my counsel reach the Mail on Sunday in about eight weeks. Perhaps a little longer if he fails to master the art of using the pointed end of the pencil.