I seem to spend the larger part of my time trying to calm Camilla down, and keep her behaviour within the limits of decorum. This time she wants to do something outrageous for the St James Palace party for Liz’s 80th. I have to spend what seems like two hours explaining to her that even though this might be called a private function, the size of it means that news will leak out. “No, Cammy, you soft tart,” I say, somewhat wearily, “you do not want Michael Barrymore as the MC. Nor Bernard Manning, for that matter; and no, it is not a good idea to announce the engagement of princess Eugenie to Gary Glitter. Liz might find it funny, but the readers of the Mail will not.” She has one of her stroppy turns, which have become more frequent ever since her ‘elevation’ to the title of Mrs Chazza. “Stick to good old fashioned talentless, geriatric lickspittles like Cliff and Cilla,” I counsel, “and if you need a comedian, get Les Dennis, Phil finds him amusing, for some bizarre reason.”
William wants to buy his grandmother an ipod. “Just get her a small one, Bill, you daft sod,” I tell him, “how much fucking disk space do you need for ‘God Save the Queen’, even with all six verses”.
I don’t suppose I will manage to miss all of the festivities, these people become more dependent as the weeks pass by, and paying Leonardo Di Caprio to act as my look-alike is getting a tad expensive these days.