NOTE: This is affectionately written fiction. Any resemblance to royals, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This piece is copyright protected.
9 July 2015
Good heavens, how long have I let this little diary lapse! So much has happened. I really must get back to “journaling.” Esteban, my Life Coach [isn’t THAT a hoot!] says it is so important! Right up there with Spanx, I gather. Where to begin….well, I suppose Baby 2 would be the appropriate place, but honestly we wet her head a bit too much and I don’t recall many details! I’ll skip to the Christening.
First let me be sure to record that Dear One is soooooo very chuffed to have a granddaughter. He’s simply mad about her. Sweetest thing ever with her. Why he’s even had a replica of the Proper Pooh Blanket made by one of those micro-businesses he so loves. He personally selected the softest of fabrics for it, testing each sweetly against his face. Such a lamb. He is, truly.
Sorry, needed to light a
fag cigarette and refresh my gin–no need for more tonic yet… Now as I was saying, the Christening of Baby 2. It was not our best day. Dear One insisted on driving us himself and that should say all that is necessary. In his new hybrid. I was all for hopping in the back with the security chappies–that Gavin is quite dishy–but NO! No. No. No. He would insist on driving. If his Father can still drive at 114 or whatever Pip is these days then so can Dear One. Dear God. I clutched the dashboard most of the way Let’s just say an eco-friendly hybrid lacks the pick-up of his other dear little car–the Astin Martin. I felt him heading into one of Grandpapa’s Gnashes the second he started to overtake an articulated lorry but couldn’t. Then I got the giggles. Reminded me of bedtime last night. His “throttle” wasn’t really in full working order. I laughed. He got angry. I laughed more. He snarled. He yelled. Finally he pulled over.
Now, any husband pulling over is a stunt no self-respecting wife will put up with (unless its to wee–getting older is hell on men, isn’t it?) He fired both barrels in my directions, but I laughed more because, bless him, his ears wiggled. Well, you can imagine the rest. Now, pulling over is not something security chaps endorse. If in danger, put your foot down. Except the lawn tractor my ex- has could go from 0-10 in about 2 minutes; Dear One’s new car takes about an hour and a half. With guns pulled they approached the door and motioned for me to open my door. (It was “Plan Everest”–one of our security routines, I recognized it instantly from the confused look on Digby’s face. He never remembers “Plan Everest.” But he’s such a lamb.)
As we were very behind schedule we transferred to the Range Rover and the driver went straight to warp speed. Once at the Big House we settled into our rooms and I could hear Dear One starting a soon-to-be-filed grievance over “hostile working condition,” with his valet. Seems the Beatrix Potter pants were forgotten. Dear One was so looking forward to them, though I thought it a missed opportunity that Dear Squirrel Nutkin was placed at the waistband–so much cuter in the right region if you see?
We all finally gathered at the door ready for the off. Pip and The Mother-in-law were in fine form. She, patting his back and shouting loud enough for all of Norway to hear “Let’s just get to the Church shall we….I’m sure they’ve got it set up on the video…..” He muttered something profane and then more about Randy’s Christening being years ago as she all but shoved him into the car while rolling her eyes. Poor lamb, he does get the brain box out of the right gear from time-to-time. Though if you ask me (and no one did) it was dreadfully unfair to make him miss the cricket.
As you’ve no doubt seen, The Boy, Yummy and Baby walked to the Church with Yummy pushing baby in Randy and Edith’s old pram while the Boy kept a death grip on Baby who wasn’t really thrilled with the whole idea. He loves Pip and they’d planned on the cricket. Plus the outfit. Oh dear, the outfit. He was good as gold at the Trooping the Colour, but the clothing had been promised as a one off. As he stood there in one of those appalling pairs of diaper-pants and a vest, the Boy and Yummy pleaded with him. Nanny gave her sternest look. Dear One had a go. Nothing doing. Who reasons with a toddler, I ask you? I told him if he’d do it I had a Mars bar in my purse. He’s the Boy’s child. He made a counter offer. Mars bar and Guitar Hero. I thought that was pushing it. Manners are manners. Mars bar or no deal. He threw a wobbly. Boy Caved. Mars bar and Guitar Hero. Baby looked unimpressed. “Mars bar, a full tin of un-organic pasta hoops for dinner and Guitar Hero.” Baby countered again. “But, Guitar Hero with Grandpa…” Now, this was the tricky bit–real spanner hurled into the works. When Pip, for that is “Grandpa” (Dear One, naturally, is Grandpapa) is in this world and not his own he adores Baby and loves to play “Satisfaction” on Guitar Hero as well. (He’s quite good at it too….though TOTH is better). By this time Yummy was ready to scream and cut in. “Final deal: Mars bar after, tin of hoops for dinner and Guitar Hero with Grandpa IF HE’S AWAKE. If not–straight to bed, no stuffed corgis and a bedtime lecture on Duty from Granny.” I thought she was a tad smug. On went the proper romper suit and out the door went Baby but not before Yummy shot the Boy a crucifying look.
They trooped up the road, the Boy looking ready to bolt, Yummy looking magnificent as always and Baby 2 crying her lungs out–she’s never ridden in a proper pram–just one of those fold-up jobs. It sways like a carriage. At least she didn’t sick up her feed. Mrs. “Doors To Manual” and her other daughter kept a fairly low profile. The future Duke was funny and gracious as always, though I did think he went over the top in his appreciation of dear Haza. Though it would be easier if Daughter 2 was Haza’s pick. Only one lot of tradespeople, as Dear One calls them, to be worked into the family.
When finally the whole deal was over Baby, never one to stand on ceremony, started to approach Granny–he did us all proud inside; a perfect neck bow with no prompting aside from Nanny in the wings miming it all. So advanced for his age. We’re all terribly proud. Sadly as the words “Can we go….” came out we had to make a distraction so it wouldn’t be in the press. Happily, the Mother-in-law bent down to hear him and his words were drowned out by all the professional cameras and oohs and ahhhs from onlookers. Baby 2 was all but forgotten.
Back at the big house as Dear One shook his head at the sight of his 173 year old father playing Guitar Hero with Baby–they shared the Mars bar, so sweet. He had tears in his eyes. SWMNBN would have loved that moment.
New to ‘Milla’s Diary? Check out the very first Installment here which includes a link to the series “Who’s Who.”