It is seldom that Camilla displays anything other than her cheerful and carefree disposition. She should be congratulated for this when one considers what up with which she has to put. Imagine my surprise, then, when I found her at the end of the electric telephone, venting spleen and breathing molten lava. It took me quite some time to ascertain the cause of her angst. She seems to live her life in a stream of consciousness that is flowing without direction or consistency.
“Nasty little git! It wouldn’t have been so bad, but I was sure Chuck told me it was Ken Goodwin we were going to have lunch with. He was always one of my favourites. I even rehearsed saying ‘we’re having a good time, aren’t we?’ in a gormless northern accent.”
“Calm down, old octopus,” I said, in my most caring manner, “give me a few minutes while I try to work out what the buggery you are referring to”.
“Lunch!” she exclaimed.
“Tell me about it,” I said, hoping that she wouldn’t, “I never know what to have, either”.
“No, you soft sod, I am alluding to the two (seemed like thirty) hours that I had to spend with that odious little tit Fred Goodwin. Apparently he is standing down as something to do with the Prince’s Truss” (sic) “and Charlie, dumbass that he is, thought it appropriate to have the tosser round for lunch”.
“Oh come on, old platypus,” I interjected, hoping to relieve her ire, “consider some of the other twats you have had to dine with in your official capacity – George Bush, David Frost, Lloyd Webber …”
“Bollocks!” She was having none of it. “At least they didn’t try to sell me insurance during the fish course, or enquire, halitosis prominent, whether I needed a new mortgage for Highgrove. The moron didn’t even take the hint when I covered my head with the table cloth and affected to have died.”
“I’m sure you didn’t let him get away with it, ducky.”
“You’re right there, I waited for a quiet spot in the conversation – everyone had been lulled by Charles’ soliloquy on organic marrows – and told Farty Fred he had only been given the position in the first place when someone told Charles that Himmler was dead, and the Yorkshire Ripper had turned it down. I also pointed out that I had switched my account to the Orkney and Shetland Building Society when Coutts had been taken over by the RBS, as I had heard there was some bollock brained crook in charge who wasn’t to be trusted, and perhaps ‘Sir’ Fred had heard of him. I then proceeded to slurp my Angel Delight very loudly while Goodwin attempted to engage some poor sod in a discussion about fly fishing in Monmouthshire.”
“And with whom are you dining today, dearie?” I cheekily enquired.
“No idea, but I’m taking an extra pair of ear plugs and a triple Courvoisier as protection.”