Liz remains in sparkling form. We still chat to each other a couple of times a week. I keep her informed about my friends here, she is particularly interested in ILTV, who is one of her neighbours, and often asks about Rog, although she doesn’t get his jokes. She still chuckles about Tom telling her to stick it up her arse when offered a CBE for services to sloth.
This week she is pleased to have attracted the attention of the Torygraph “I was beginning to despair – almost on the verge of texting a nude picture to Chris Evans to see if that would rustle up interest.” “You’re in there nearly every bleeding day,” I retorted, “and it’s not as if anyone gives a stuff about you inviting the Azerbaijjani ambassador to lunch”. “Don’t remind me of that!” she almost shrieks, “I have repeatedly told Philip that no-one wants to see his trick with shrimps or his Gracie Fields impression”.
We got back to the latest news story.
“Of course it isn’t the first time it’s happened”, she confided, “We get so bored with sitting in that car waving at the proles – seen one you’ve seen them all. I sometimes get it to break down by sticking chewing gum in the ignition. When we had that other driver – Clarkson or some such name – he used to pretend to have the car break down, and I could rely on his discretion, but now we have to do it ourselves. It was Philip’s idea – he had always wanted to be in a police car with the sirens wailing. I was a little more nimble than him, and used to be the first out to yell “you’re fucking nicked, you slaaaag” when we saw any criminal activity. Of course, I can only do it now when he isn’t there – he has no sense of proportion. That time that he caused an old lady to wet herself when he yelled out on the tannoy “On the floor now, motherfucker!” when he saw her crossing Aldwych on an orange light was the last time. He doesn’t like it, so we had to arrange for him to take part in interviews at the Yard as an alternative – can’t let him loose on the public of course, but there are, thankfully, lots of resting actors willing to take part for £50 and a copy of princess Marina’s autobiography. I sometimes worry that he might recognise the actors, but then remember that he doesn’t remember what fucking day it is most of the time.”
“Did you like that bit where I said ‘What a fantastic gift’ and they reported that ‘there was a big smile on her face’? Of course there was a bloody smile - who could keep a straight face in that situation? What in the name of buggery am I going to do with that? It’s not as if Charles is the sodding king and needs to be reminded of where he is – the poor boy has shown signs of creeping senility ever since he was twelve. We’ve already had to turn Anne’s room into a bloody storage facility with all this crap that people keep giving me. I haven’t told her, and can’t keep count of all of the excuses I’ve had to make when she says she would like to come and stay for a couple of days. I never liked her being here much anyway – takes weeks to get rid of the smell of horse manure after she’s been.”
“And as for telling them that I knew how busy the tube was, well, I nearly ruptured my liver keeping a straight face. I haven’t been on it for over sixty poxy years, and when I did there were only three other people on the train (and two of them got off when Margaret offered to show them her knickers) – I don’t know where I get these ideas from.”