Thursday, June 9

As if I didn't have enough to do with my own damned blog.

My name is Vicus Scurra. I am the lovechild of Dame Vera Lynn and Fidel Castro. I have my mother’s voice, and my father’s personal habits. I am a confidante of many senior figures, and should you see me hunched over my mobile telephone over the next few days, it is out of necessity. I have arranged with Watski to allow calls from Camilla, Charles and Rolf Harris. You have my assurance I will not abuse this privilege, in return I would request a little privacy should a call come in. After all, it would be inappropriate for you to be in possession of the information about state visits to Uruguay or how Mr Harris is going to touch up the Queen.

I should point out at this stage that I have never watched the television equivalent of this little exercise, and so will need some help in maintaining the appropriate etiquette. So far, all I can see are some impertinent questions from our host about what we will be wearing and what we have about our persons. I can understand that in North Nottinghamshire, where it is still considered the height of fashion to wear wellies and braces, the attire of others is a matter of fascination, but I will not be drawn into judging others by their appearance. Even Zoe. In case it is any of your business I am wearing the same clothes that I wore to tea at Sandringham last time. Philip is such a messy eater, that I find it better to don myself in materials that can be quickly run under the tap.

And, really, the contents of my suitcase are none of anyone’s business. Should anyone find themselves unable to curb their curiosity, I must warn you that the contents of that tube are NOT for internal use.

I need hardly list my qualities. Readers of my diary will recognise me as a wise, avuncular figure with a keen mind and big heart. While I prefer not to dabble in the affairs of others, I think that I should point out to Rob, in a very caring way, that if he wishes to represent himself of as an intellectual, then he should learn to spell a little more carefully. “Corduroy” is correct, I believe, although I confess I do not recall seeing any these 20 years.

Please, someone, lend Zoe some night attire. I do not wish to wake in the morning to see her bottom waving in my face. Again.

As for my gift, it is a slim volume, containing the first published work of Britain’s greatest writer.

Love and Peace.


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