Curtsey to Camilla? Not my wife!
MY WIFE Helen and I disagreed profoundly on t he subject of Charles and Diana’s divorce.
I was in the Charles and Camilla camp, while Helen had both feet entrenched – no, cemented – in the Diana fan club tent. When an invitation arrived to take tea with the Prince at Clarence House, her preferences resurfaced.
‘I won’t be going to this, but don’t let me stop you.’ ‘Oh, come on, it will be amazing.’ ‘I don’t want to “take tea” with him. You toddle off and cosy up to royalty if you wish. I don’t like what he did to Diana.’
‘Come and support me as an MP. I’ll miss you,’ I said with a lostpuppy expression.
‘OK. I will bloody come, but don’t think I won’t let him know what I think of him and that woman if he speaks to me.’
‘ Check out the treason laws first,’ I said, fleeing the room.
Two weeks l ater, we were strolling down The Mall. Me, with trepidation; Helen in full flow.
‘I’m not staying long. And don’t expect me to curtsey. He shouldn’t be ki ng anyway, it should skip to William. He’s looovely.’
We entered Clarence House as the Prince was doing his rounds. Helen was nursing her second glass of wine, and I risked a joke. ‘Darling,’ I whispered. ‘Don’t forget to curtsey.’ ‘Oh, b*****ks to you.’ And then, there he was, t rademark hand in left pocket and t humb curled over the top. Elegantly dressed, shorter t han you might expect from TV. I i ntroduced myself, then turned to Helen. With a new-found dignity, she capitulated. Her hand swept out to greet the heir to the throne and she flashed her most sycophantic smile.
So warm was her greeting, I was anticipating a grovelling curtsey not seen since Walter Raleigh laid down his cloak for Queen Elizabeth. Helen and the Prince shared a joke about curtains. The wine had done its trick and mellowed the great lady, and the Prince moved safely on.
‘ Well, darling. That really told him, eh?’
‘Oh, b*****ks to you.’