A report to the Queen

Swalpa Connect Maadi

A report to the Queen

Dear Mumwy Wumsy,

Pip Pip and a Hey ho, from our erstwhile jewel in the crown. I have survived all the prospects of roofs falling down, bridges collapsing and snakes popping up from under the bed to say hello. No need to fret the old noggin about my safety. Your Baton is also on its way back in prime condition. It has not been cracked or broken and stuck together with scotch tape by the ingenious mantra they call Jugaad. (Not to be confused with the crass American Ye Gaaad). The baton is in prime condition and has been given an acid wash by our blokes in the British Embassy to kill those India bugs that National health knows nought of.

As usual our media got a little carried  away – all those dirty toilets and snake crawling around in a jolly old frenzy to bite our sports stars.

Not to mention the stray dogs they would have to share beds with. (Now, now Mums, don't get ideas about weird sex acts). Thankfully they cleared it all up before our teams arrived, though Cami Girl and I would have loved to see an Indian rope trick. And Mums, even the bridge that collapsed was admirably repaired by the army chappies.

 Cami and I went to study organic farming. Must tell you that Cami is looking  like a million, (Pounds. Not years.) since she got herself worked over by some native medicine man. Maybe you and the Pater would like to knock off a few years by sneaking incognito to this spa place near Bengaluru.

Incidentally, Cami girl tells me that there is a stature of Great Grandmum Victoria. With her sour expression intact, still at large in Bengaluru. So keep the chin up. There is a bit of prime real estate still in India that will forever be Britain. At least until they decide to replace Victoria with a local chump in a dhoti.

Speaking of Chumps ..one dolt with a beard who spoke a strange version of English caused a huge row between me and Cami Girl by publicly addressing me as Prince Diana.
I had an awfully stressful time till the old lemon under great mental acceleration came up with a solution. Brilliant, even if I say so myself..

I said “What ho, old Fishface, this is a native Indian custom where they normally address the husband by the wife's name to honour him.” For a while it made her all nice and matey, till she snorted through her nozzle like an old steam engine and took on another tack. (She is quite bright, I tell you, despite evidence to the contrary). “Why didn't old Beardy call you Prince Camilla ?” She is sore as a  bear with a  toothache and I am giving her tall glasses of what the Punjab blokes call Lassis to get the probiotic bacteria to start working inside. Meanwhile I’d do anything to get my hands on that Bearded Clod who created domestic discord with his Diana fetish.

Meanwhile Mumsy, everything went off tickety boo though we did not win too many gold medals. The natives seem to have got their act together and are winning at everything.  
What with gold prices going through the roof it would have been nice to get our hands on some gold. (Would have helped with the heating bills of Buck House this winter.)

But  I console myself with the fact that we still have the Kohinoor diamond. And of course that piece of real estate with Great Grandmum ensconced on it firmly. Toodle oo, tra la la.
Your heir always apparent, Charlie Boy.

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