Thursday, March 27, 2014

'Milla's Diary, Week Ending 26 March 2014

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.

19 March 2014

Difficult day today on the Royal Round. No tampon vouchers--not that sort of 'difficult.' Flood victims. So difficult to say anything that doesn't sound Mitford-ish and patronizing. Dear One's eyes puddle up so quickly in those situations, but he mustn't have tears dripping down his face--Mummy and Papa and, worst of all, GRANNY would be so let down! He's frightfully good at this sort of occasion and it galls that the press can't give him the credit he's due for it all. Like the OTH he doesn't do "stunts" like cradling crying OAPs or homeless single Mummys, but he truly, truly FEELS their pain and it hurts him NOT to be able to do those things, but one simply can't. It isn't the Royal way. It isn't the true BRITISH way. That's for Oprah. He comforts by being stalwart, by being the Heir to the Throne in a proper double-breasted suit with a pocket square and bespoke shoes older than most of the people he's comforting. He comforts by being the SAME, just as Mummy does. People who have had their lives ripped apart need to see that somethings don't change. That's good. A stiff upper-lip has gotten a bad rap in the era of tell-all chat shows. A stiff-upper lip beat the Germans--twice, no matter what the Yanks say. A stiff upper lip is an expression of confidence and fortitude. But can the press Johnnies ever say that? Of course not. Oprah-style wobblies and waterfalls of tears sell. Stiff upper lips don't. Shame.

20 March 2014

Royal round again, then a nice long park in front of the Telly with Dear One. He's fascinated by 2 American shows about work:  the Dirtiest Jobs one and and that one about CEOs going undercover. He'd love to do the undercover one at the Palace, but it couldn't work--could it? He'd need someone in his place and that would spoil the fun. It made a lovely change from endless replays of the beloved Kumars or Monty Python! I didn't even mind skipping the 'Street! He decided to be wonderful and got out MY favorite soft blanket, mixed me an ample G & T and sent the dear little Filipino kitchen made out for Smokey Bacon flavored crisps! What a lamb! All for ONE! We had a fabulous cuddle while the dirty job bloke did something so nasty I won't write about it here (sick smell featured prominently, if you MUST know). For the second episode he'd arranged for one of those chocolate lava deserts! Such fun!! The third and final episode featured a very, very yummy whipped cream and booze thing that was beyond heaven. By this time I was having thoughts that he'd reconnected with the boys old minder. ONE of those treats, fine. TWO, any wife would start to wonder, but THREE? Seems he really was just angling for an encore of the special "fun" we had one night last week, but was too afraid to JUST ASK. What a hoot! Naturally I gave in! He's such a lamb, after all. (And he did rather snuffle a few tears after the flood visit yesterday. Best to buck him up promptly, I always say, or he tends to go down hill to morose rather rapidly and then it's WEEKS, literally WEEKS of jollying to get him back on terra firma.and we ARE nearing THAT. TIME. OF. THE. YEAR.)

21 March 2014

Rang Pip last night since Dear One was snoring in his chair in front of a mind-numbing spell-binding nature documentary he needed to watch for an upcoming charity "do." Pip and the Mother-in-law were both in rare form. Someone threw a spanner in their works and booked them for a visit with modern interpretative dance. So not their thing as we used to say in the 70s. The Mother-in-Law had racing replays on at HER volume, while Pip had some sort of thriller on at MAXIMUM volume so that trying to hear anything either said was pointless. At any rate their pizza came and we had to ring off. They're old school, of course, and even pizza in front of the telly means no phones. I ask you? Who rings off for a meal these days? Good to hear their usual loving exchanges though--so reassuring.

My sister rang with a lovely long dish on Pushy. She's apparently trying to encourage the marriage rumors for Haza in the hopes that he'll vacate his little bolt-hole and her boy can move home to the UK and take it over. That would position her grandchild neatly as a playmate for Baby. So not on, as people today would say, but then she does tend to reside on Fantasy Island. Dear One, when he awoke from  finished his school film nature documentary roared with laughter and left Haza a very spirited voicemail about it all. Minutes later the land line blared and Dear One about peed as he answered it. Haza, rather pleasantly boozey (soldiers have the most fun!) yelled "Not Bloody Likely" so loudly I could hear it across the room and then suggested that if the Boy and Yummy wanted 'lesser' children for their child to play with they'd encourage Posh and Becks to have a new one rather than invite the child of a B-list actress and a former wanna-be male model over for a play date. Dear One happily suggested we invite the PoshBecks for a weekend soon and give them the most romantic guest room. What a hoot!

22 March 2014

Dear One gnashing over Randy's Ex. She's flung herself back into the news with renewed tears over her fat years. Honestly, milk the cow till it's dead, I always say! And make sure you Praise the Mother-in-law and reassert your claims to Randy and heap the blame for all your life woes on poor Pip! You were fat because you ate too much. Catty, I know, but honestly! If you eat fish fingers with mayonaise and other rubbish you will get FAT. Move on.

Spent a lovely day with the Grands--we made an ungodly mess decorating cupcakes, but the Filipino kitchen maid cleaned it all up with a smile (and the promise of another round-trip airline ticket home to see her Mum). Such fun! Lovely pink sprinkles, lashings of sugary icing! Then we all had a lovely lie-down in front of a great painting and played a game where we closed our eyes and then had to say what we remembered of it--sure way to get them to nod off, let me tell you! Mummies my age were the pioneers in raising children with only the dreaded au pair for help--we learned fast!

Surprised Dear One with a full Downton Dinner and, since giving him the boy from the Palace Cafe's number, had Carson-worthy service from the Butler and nary a peep from his Union Rep. Lovely mutton, organic veggies, that really horrid tasting fabulous free-everything wine he loves and a perfectly scrummy desert of acai-berry  flax-millett crumble with almond/greek yogurt cream and breadfruit dumplings all drizzled with a fascinating rhubarb-starfruit juice reduction and chopped macadamia nuts (which I find always taste like soap, but the whateveritwasreduction solved that). Yummy!

 23 March 2014

The peace just couldn't hold, could it? Dear One cranky (his sinuses--always a bother this time of year) from the moment he woke for his pre-dawn pee all the way till bedtime Not a bit of fun in him today. Well, it took all the valet and I could do to jolly him into his suit and out the door. His fun new Play-Dough print pants, a fabulous pair of Great-Great-Grandpapa Edward VII's cuff links, that lovely museli he adores dripping in organic honey--nothing, NOTHING, worked. I promised all sorts of things I have no intention of doing at bedtime--not even THAT. The dreaded Spring Funk has arrived, full stop. This is an annual event and the Staff and I have annual planning meetings to cope with it. His valet activated the emergency plan just after doing up Dear One's flies (yes, the funk is THAT bad). I hauled Uncle Dickie's tv show out of its hiding storage place, the staff pulled out Granny's loose covers for the sitting room furniture (a more ugly chinz never was produced), the George II silver service was hauled out of the vault and polished and the Magic Roundabout sheets were ironed and put on the bed. (I located my Brian t-shirt for bedtime).

As the witching hour Dear One's return time loomed, the  kitchen staff piped herbed, organic goat's cheese onto rounds of freshly toasted garlic-rubbed artisan granary bread and poured the correct free range taste free free trade wine. The valet had the super soft Balmoral Tartan jimjams warm and toasty and a lovely Game Pie, mashed potatoes and a jug of gravy was ready for the off in front of Uncle Dickie on the telly. Dear One had other ideas. He came in and went straight up to his dressing room and locked the door. Finally rang for some porridge. Porridge? I ask you! So, he pouted or funked or whatever it is he does in there and the dogs and I had a jolly time catching up the 'Street with a huge bowl of mash and gravy and some hastily fried bangers with a boiled egg and toast soldiers for good measure! Best night I've had in ages.

24 March 2014

The funk continues, but I threw the plans out the window and decided to put my big girl knickers on and just IGNORE him. Borrowed the Filipino kitchen maid's little Fiat and ran Pip out to that new Indian buffet for the OAP special offer lunch deal. He chatted up the old gals and made them all quite jolly. They had a raucous sing-song of bawdy war time favorites! Gave the staff fits. Took selfies with the old Dears and didn't try to hide who he was. They all did their best wobbly curtseys and neck bows. Lots of time on Memory Lane. One old darling was sure she'd spent the night with him in '41 but he claimed he was visiting his mother at the time. Still, he told her not to lose hope! What a hoot! He ended by getting in good graces with the management by phoning the Steward's Office and having the bill promptly handled for the unfortunately mishap with the salad bar. A quick selfie with the manager and all was forgiven. Phones simply save the day, I often find. For my part it was sweet that only two of them asked me why I was so dreadful to my predecessor. I pretended they were senile and said to the first "Rose bushes? I'd never have thought of those for helping loamy soil." Shut that little party down PDQ and good riddance, too. The one truly senile Old Dear I simply guided to the air raid shelter, patting her hand and telling her it wasn't a Doodle Bug so she'd be fine. It was actually the clearner's closet, but she didn't seem to notice.

25 March 2014

Day three of the Funk. He's back talking. Sadly it's to a Cabinet Minister. My mobile went nuts and I had gold-corded flunkies wetting a nappy over it all day long. Talk to the hoof, chappie, I'm not listening. You've got the gold cord, you  sort him. I just feed him and sleep with him. Honestly! He WILL go on about injustice and decent housing and organic food and pants that bind and whatever-it-is-this-week. Do I look like the bloody head of state? Alright, I'll give you the hair color is similar, but honestly! A wife hasn't a snowball's chance in hell of shutting him up. There's been two of us and neither succeeded. So why ask? But it's always up to ONE, isn't it? Mopping up dog sick, looking at oozing rashes in the royal netherregions--its ONE who does these things. So I broached the subject over his sainted museli. Now, I was raised in the era of Finishing School and becoming the RIGHT sort of wife. I know that breakfast is when a man is to be ALONE, preferably behind a crisply ironed copy of the Times. Its when he thinks about important things like whether the coffee girl at the office would give him a tumble or if he needs a laxative. No wife worth her soon-to-be-expensively-redecorated-drawing-room would approach a man about something as big as whinging about a political issue in pubic at breakfast. But, there you have it--we're in Funk Time so it's breakfast of never. Duty was instilled in our generation from the moment of conception. (For many of us, our very conception was an act of duty on Mummy or Papa or both's part).

I used my Mummy-of-Special-Snowflake voice. I touched his hand gently and looked him in the eye with a kindly expression on my face. I had on soft, feminine colors (so it was a 1995 WI Pie Baking School t-shirt--it was soft green, best I could do and get my face on that early without a fag cigarette, but he'd have smelled it and the game would have been over before it started). I stated the case in short, simple sentences. He looked me dead-eye and said "Tell them to get stuffed," then picked up the LIBERAL paper and bit into some granary toast. Smoke that, Mr. Gold Cords. I went to the kitchen and begged a fry-up. Some days just scream bacon and baked beans.

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