Charles finally closed the front door after a long and traumatic day pleasing the peasants in Carmarthenshire..or was it Caernarvonshire he always got them muddled up.... 'Camilla!' he called, 'fetch my slippers, crack open the gin and fire up the Wii !' I'm getting into my onesie!'
Whilst Camilla busied about and arranged delivery of the royal kebab with cheesy chips Charles reflected on the day. Why couldn't he have been Prince of Barbados or somewhere instead of Prince of bloody Wales, perhaps he already was...he would ask Mother.
The usual annual press nonsense over one's royal wages had been dutifully ignored and anyway, when that baby finally arrives everyone will forget the nonsense over one's royal property and tax affairs. Bloody Channel 4. Not my idea of being 'mentioned in dispatches'....and that soddin' Public Accounts Committee thingy, he mused.
Charles was still wondering exactly what it was he'd opened in Llandovery that morning, apparently it was a 'work-hub', or so he'd been told by the PR chaps. What's the point of that he wondered as he fired up the iPad to check Harry's Facebook status. There were a lot of nice people from the council there though and now that damn secondary school was finally closed none of the locals bothered him about it. Ooh, and apparently there were going to be 45 houses on the site with room enough, just maybe, to squeeze in a Waitrose. One could even 'shop locally' then.
Charles settled down with his Wii...Call of Duty...that seems appropriate. Camilla didn't mind him jumping around in his onesie shooting people, Mother wouldn't let him play it at Christmas because he frightened the corgis.
North Wales tomorrow, in the rain. He couldn't bloody wait. As Camilla plunged her feet in the washing-up bowl for a good soak she could heard the distant thud-thud of helicopter blades...the butler was waiting outside with his brolly and silver salver....the kebabs were on their way.
Whilst Camilla busied about and arranged delivery of the royal kebab with cheesy chips Charles reflected on the day. Why couldn't he have been Prince of Barbados or somewhere instead of Prince of bloody Wales, perhaps he already was...he would ask Mother.
The usual annual press nonsense over one's royal wages had been dutifully ignored and anyway, when that baby finally arrives everyone will forget the nonsense over one's royal property and tax affairs. Bloody Channel 4. Not my idea of being 'mentioned in dispatches'....and that soddin' Public Accounts Committee thingy, he mused.
Charles was still wondering exactly what it was he'd opened in Llandovery that morning, apparently it was a 'work-hub', or so he'd been told by the PR chaps. What's the point of that he wondered as he fired up the iPad to check Harry's Facebook status. There were a lot of nice people from the council there though and now that damn secondary school was finally closed none of the locals bothered him about it. Ooh, and apparently there were going to be 45 houses on the site with room enough, just maybe, to squeeze in a Waitrose. One could even 'shop locally' then.
Charles settled down with his Wii...Call of Duty...that seems appropriate. Camilla didn't mind him jumping around in his onesie shooting people, Mother wouldn't let him play it at Christmas because he frightened the corgis.
North Wales tomorrow, in the rain. He couldn't bloody wait. As Camilla plunged her feet in the washing-up bowl for a good soak she could heard the distant thud-thud of helicopter blades...the butler was waiting outside with his brolly and silver salver....the kebabs were on their way.
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