Countdown to the Royal Divorce Part 18

You will be distressed, and rending your raiment, (I can write that but don’t ask me to say it), to hear that I have been less than well these few days. Nowhere near in the Dave league of biblical plagues, but enough to interrupt the rhythm of my life to the extent that I have had my computing perambulations somewhat curtailed. Today, having failed to sleep much last night, and been woken by a cough every time I tried to sleep, and with a headache and other symptoms, I resorted to watching daytime television. I am happy to report that it is wonderful. I saw, for the first time, the whole of the episode of “Whose line is it anyway” with Richard Simmons, having only seen clips before. It was almost worth becoming ill for.

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I have been reluctant to write much about my old friends, the Windsors, because of the news embargo, and not wanting to step out of line, but I know that some of you are keen to be kept up to date.

I knew that something monumental was afoot when that silly tart Camilla telephoned in November, in a bit of a state about what appeared to be a packing dilemma. “Just theoretically, of course”, she began, “what do you think the correct number of pairs of underpants would be required by a young chap for, say, 4 months in Afghanistan?”. I told her four, but put an extra pair in to be on the safe side. I am always surprised at how gullible the silly buggers are. One would think that they lived constantly surrounded by sycophants incapable of being anything other than totally subservient. I heard nothing more about it, and I have to confess that I was a bit bemused to see all the fuss about Charlie’s youngest in the news, because I could swear I found him hiding in a cupboard in St James’s Palace in January, and in February I had what I assumed was a misdirected text asking if he could come out yet. I replied that he would have to wait for Edward.

It is nice to see Liz taking it easy at last. Most Wednesday afternoons she nips out to the Bingo at the old Bermondsey Gaumont. It is surprising that she has never been found out, but generally the population of London are so up themselves that they notice nothing. A few years ago it fell to me to escort her on this venture – and what a bloody waste of time that was. Not made any more pleasant by her antics, I might add. One time the poor old love got a tad confused, and mistook the passengers waiting to board the train at Westminster tube station for a trade delegation from Paraguay, and went along asking them all “What do you do?” and “Have you come far?”. Generally in London there are more than 50 nutters to the square foot, so one more went unnoticed, but it wasn’t very easy for me to extricate her. Once she got inside the hall it was no better. It took her about 2 years to learn the rules, and then on the odd occasion when she managed to get a winning line she would yell out “Palace!” I eventually pointed out that this was not the accepted norm, but even when she changed to “Hice!” it was little better.