Wednesday, November 13, 2013

'Milla's Diary, week ending November 13, 2013

NOTE: This is affectionately written fiction. Any resemblance to royals, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This piece is copyright protected.

Need to catch up or know who is who? Check out the first installment of 'Milla's Diary.

Copyright protected.

November 7 and 8 2013

Off on a grand tour of India and Pakistan to start us back onto the Royal Rounds again. Lots of reminiscing about how wise Uncle Dickie was (or was NOT if you ask me, but then no one ever does!). Dear One grim as always at the start of any tour. He'd love to just meet "people" and not dignitaries or specially chosen "exemplary citizens." But, that cannot happen. If he does meet such a person he gets to ask them some inane question such as "Did you crochet your hat yourself?" before a minder is sweeping him on--usually past someone with  a not-too-cleverly hidden SWMNBN face mask. As for my role in the whole thing, I'm a poor substitute for that Patti Morrison in the "Doors" movie--I'm not really much of an "ornament" no matter how one slices it. But, I'm here for the bucking up, the completion of the royal "couple" image. Like the "600"--mine not to wonder why, mine but to do AND THEN die.

Anywho...the first two days are always a jumble. The horrible heat--I can't complain at least, I did have extra time to acclimatize this trip, thank goodness. Things get rolling in earnest tomorrow.

November 9, 2013

Dancers today. Never easy--Dear One and I love to dance! Lovely time  Such talented young people. Oh to be so young and flexible again. Youth truly is wasted on the young! Then on to an event I didn't want to do--it just smacked of SWMNBN's brief. Abandoned children. But they can say what they will, I'm a mother. Can't imagine. Can't imagine even having to think of that choice. Beautiful children, truly dedicated carers and, I was suprised by a familiar face. She was known as "Pixie 2" when she was at school with my daughter. Getting heartily sick of aid workers trying to wow her with local lingo. She is of "local descent" but she grew up in a mansion in Surrey and her parents themselves are second generation born on the Sceptered Isle! She's only stuck here while her American computer genius husband does some consulting junket. What a hoot. Had a lovely catch-up on my daughter's behalf. No children yet, but she quite admired the Grands on my iPhone. Over much too soon and it was off to some dinner with some dignitaries.

November 10, 2013

Put Dear One in a tropical climate and rashes WILL attack. In the WORST places. Fortunately the one thing his valet takes very, very seriously is what is known, if you can believe it, as the "Apothacary Convience." In it are nearly every form of lotion, spray, gel, ointment, unguent, paste, poultice or herbal concoction for bathing in known to man. The effected 'part' is duly photographed with an iPhone and the photo is relayed to Mission Control at the Royal Society of Itchy Body Parts, Royal Division, in London.  Once identified (my guess is they say "well, this won't hurt anything," but what would I know) and the valet is then charged with pulling out the glop, zapping the bar code and waiting for clearance to snap on those horrid feeling gloves and administering said glob to itchy royal part. No way my bits and pieces are being zapped and codified! Just LET the press intercept that and you'll think Dear One's little feminine supply comment was truly wholesome family entertainment. But, alas, I am not the afflicted one. But, given the location of said itchy rash on said royal, his valet balked. Refused. Wouldn't take the fence. It's always up to One, isn't it. The really horrid jobs. The clogged loo, cleaning up visiting dogs' messes. And, of course, sick. Cleaning up sick is probably top of my job description. "Wife of Heir to the Throne, Duties: Clean up sick, wave, unclog loo, wave, clear away dog's mess, Keep Smile on Face, Turn to cameras when eating something disgusting, Wave, pose for photo with baby in toxic nappy, wave." Yes. That's me.

So, once we were alone and the relevant tube of gunk had been approved, zapped, decoded and WARMED. Yes, I said warmed. Now we women are quite used to cold glop in weird places--especially if we've given birth--but the longest serving Heir to the Throne? He has never made that adjustment. I blame the Nanny. The first one, not the beloved one. No. Her little darling couldn't have cold snuffle-stuff rubbed on his chest. Nor cold ointment for nappy rash. No! So, yes, in a sink full of probably contaminated water, but following instructions to a "T" I warmed the tube before gloving up and administering it. Now, no matter how long you've been a couple there are things that ARE simply best not shared. Periods (unless it's too get out of boozy sex that might go badly for him) or Piles (unless it's to get out of boozy sex that might go badly for him), a jolly good sit-down in the loo and nose hair if he doesn't have a valet or nose hair if she doesn't have a maid. Otherwise, you can endure most things.  I savagely snapped on the gloves in a gesture that I hoped would keep the entire process strictly business. became hilarious. The stuff, you see, burned. Madly. Deeply. And I laughed. Madly. Deeply. Cried. Weed. Couldn't stop laughing because the afflicted part was waving Madly at me.

Was allowed to catch up the Street and write post cards to the Grands in peace. Dear One in cold tub most of the evening. A bit grumpy when I knocked to make sure he was still alive. Normally he enjoys a joke like that. The ex positively SCREAMED with laughter. I'm getting the name of the stuff for a house party he's having. He rang off to call the OTH and give her the story. Probably be in the tabloids tomorrow.

November 11, 2013

Well, Sunday did not go well. Not at all. We did the rounds--Remembrance Sunday and all that after all. Dear One smiling in public. Stony cold in private. I tried, I did try to explain that I had nothing what-so-ever to do with the selection of the tube. In a snit. A snit the likes of a hurricane. Grandpapa's gnashes type snit. Well, I broke. I did. Smoked fag after fag cigy after cigy, ate anything I could find and downed half a bottle of gin in one swig. I hate it when he's like this. Bad enough at home, but on a tour? It's worse than living in a gold fish bowl. One tour they got him on film traipsing naked from the shower. I ask you! Not really a holiday. And there's only us and the minders. No dogs. No friends. Us and the minders. Ladies in waiting, equerries--they aren't really friends. They're paid to be polite. There's a difference. Just ask Dear One. He'll tell you at length about his brother-in-law who WAS an equerry, if you please. Nice enough chap but one does tend to turn to him when flowers and handed to one.

Finally at bedtime I insisted he just let it all out. He did. Not at all what I had in mind. Dropped his drawers right there in the room. Violent red patch on a rather precious piece of him, too. Red as in burned to a crisp. Like he'd forgotten a fig leaf when he was sunbathing. TMI, I'm sure. Was for me. Well I started trying to say something sweet, said something dirty, got to laughing. Not good. He sulked. He grumped into bed. I tried, in vain, to find the buffalo fart cd or the pooh blanket or anything "cozy". Gave in and let him wallow on my boobs--always so good for him. He resisted of course, but can only hold out so long. Should have held out. Things expand under those circumstances. The red itchy part was not terribly flexible. Turned the mobile OFF. Don't want another call from the Mother-in-law.  Then again, she'd probably think it was hilarious--I know Pip would. Especially since it was Dear One. Randy? Everyone involved would have been sacked. Might just text Pip.....poor lamb wasn't looking terribly 'with it' in the photos this morning. Back on the proper feeding regime again I'd imagine. At 92 does it really matter?

November 12, 2013

Another day of Dear One sulking thru more Remembrance Services. Tedious little dignitaries, a few decent people and endless sighing. And then the moaning when we were alone. I was left again staring at the fact that if men gave birth Cain could not have murdered Able, he'd have been an only child. Think that's sore? Right, ladies, we can tell him a thing or two!  Watched Downton alone on my iPad. That dishy Lord Gillingham was back. But why do Robert and Cora only ever get to look at each other like love-struck fools and kiss. He isn't THAT old. The man's been away weeks with his moronic brother-in-law in a country with no booze. In real life he'd have taken her right there on the bloody lawn for some boredom relief if nothing else. Dear One watched on HIS iPad (of course I had to sort it all for him) all the while whinging about ear ache from the ear buds. Of course he was outraged at an aristo looking over a mere doctor's widow. Woops. Forgot! Hasn't aired in the USA so of course it hasn't happened yet!

Dear One bucked enough by Downton to at least kiss and make up. We didn't tempt fate by lingering over it, but we did snuggle and catch up Strictly and he stayed awake for part of the Street. Not bad for a tour night. Usually he takes a green pill and snores until wake up time. Not even a pee. He's really such a lamb.

November 13, 2013

Pip and the Mother-in-law loved the medical fiasco. Dear One's valet came with a Red Box--you know the ones with all those pieces of mindless twaddle the government sends over to her for her signature in? In it was a single elastoplast. I stayed in the loo for the longest time possible, but he still had smoke coming out of his ears. I had DARED not only to tell Mummy, but Papa as well?? I defended myself. Of course not. I'd only told Pip. Pip wouldn't dare keep something THAT good from her.

My brother rang. He's to play host with the elephants we're visiting. Always a good one for a joke, I had to share. Thank God he got Dear One to laugh over it. Such hoot really.  Hopefully the rest of the tour will be livlier.

1 comment:

Susan said...

These are so fun to read, and many times I have to stop and remind myself that it's not Milla writing. They ring so true! Dear One's rash had me cracking up :)