So one is finally about to marry one's "partner", as the young people say. About time. I can take or leave the whole jiggery-pokery - never made a jot of difference to me or Walesy - but I do want to be able to spoon the old boy in peace without all the ghastly sneaking around one is forced to do by the cameramen. Hoi polloi, of course, have me down as some kind of whinnying boiler who snaffled the future king while he wasn't looking. Bloody nonsense dreamed up by the worst sort of snivelling civilian, with their tea towels and their fixation with those suburban Spencers. One feels a bit yah-boo bloody suckery to the whole heaving lot of them, quite frankly. So I'll be signing the bit of paper come Friday in whatever amusingly squalid reg office the ma-in-law's decreed. And they'll be clamouring to watch us on their TV sets, with their TV dinners on their laps. I'm frequently asked whether there should be a monarchy at all. Asinine institution, and quite frankly I don't give an airborne rumpy-pumpy. I've always been a half-cocked republican myself, which is one of the reasons I didn't give the fellow a decent test drive in the first place. Far preferred an employed commoner to a work-shy princeling.
The more rabid variety of Spencer fan has been out in full force this week, cursing and dribbling and wielding its little posies. Lady Di, she did die, is all I can say on the matter.
Gets Walesy giggling like a schoolboy every time. Couple of hundred years ago, no one banged on about a dead first wife - bag, breed, behead, and that was rather that. One is supposed to be awfully hacked off about the Spencer, with her skiddy, doggy, mudbath fountain and her television-hopping butler, but people forget I orchestrated the bloody union in the first place.
All manner of childish speculation about whether the senior in-laws will show. I don't give a damn. But Walesy gets terribly over-emotional about the whole thing, sulking and sobbing and calling out "Mummy" in his special baby-voice that the psychologist fellow told him how to do. If the ma-in-law and her walker give the whole thing a miss, good for them. We can always pace through our steps again when we do the evening charades at Balmoral. Even put on a small show afterwards for the servants.
As for the morganatic marriage fiddle-faddle, I'm frankly not following the form. I've taken a ciggie break. Queen or HRH, Princess Consort or dreary little Lady, it all comes out in the wash. I'm perfectly happy with Duch of Cornwall. My only niggle is the frightful county of choice. He could have plumped for somewhere nicer. All Spars selling nasty Scotch eggs and nasty bungalows, and not a decent hunt west of the Tamar.
Dear old jug-ears. He does bugger up, but I adore the fool, whatever the civvies imagine. I just want to be able to listen to his nonsense and stable Prancer and Titty together with adjoining lunge yards. Too much to ask?
On the subject of current affairs, largely involving oneself (34 years and counting) - what's all this mewling and puking about school dinners among fat little chefs and politicians? In my day, a girl felt fortunate to get a sausage in the refectory. As a nation, we're next to none at nursery food, and Walesy simply adores his porridge and puddings.
The hunters eat mush, and what's good enough for the mules is good enough for Highgrove is good enough for spotty little schoolboys in hooded jackets. Feed them kedgeree.
I believe in the non-sanctity of marriage. Always have. Walesy is providing a brace of guards for honeymoon security and all that. I've told him that if he wants to be my sanitary protection, so to speak, it's the full-sized Tampax Super-Plus that I require. Reader, I'm marrying him. So naff off now, would you.
Joanna Briscoe's new novel, Sleep with Me, with be published by Bloomsbury on 4 July