Can't A Duchess Get A Starbucks Latte Without A Fuss?

Oh.  Wait.  Nevermind.  I forgot who I AM for a moment.  Hence the "security".

I do love a skinny decaf latte, you know.  And a biscuit.

So far today, I haven't required a vom bag.  Cheers.

I've Discovered A Lovely New American TV Programme - 'Workaholics'

I am completely knackered after the unscheduled tea-time visit yesterday from She Whom Won't Be Mentioned By Name (one of Those Women), as you can imagine.  I can still get a whiff of the dog poo  in the foyer. Bloody hell, I thought she would never leave.  I plan on a lovely lie-in today with my telly.

Thankfully, William decided we could afford a Netflix account. My queue is full of a new favorite American programme.  Workaholics.  I nearly pissed myself laughing.  I'm quite smitten with these naughty boys. They actually remind of me of a certain ginger I know.

Don't tell anyone.

Guess Who Popped In Unannounced For Tea?

Look who decided to drop in for tea this afternoon?  Whose mum-in-law does that?  WITH a  Royal Corgi, I might add.

Oh.  I stepped in poo, thankyouverymuch. (The Corgi's...just to make it clear.)

Honk.

I Used To Have A Cracking Good Time

Oh, ME.  All red-faced, knees up and pissed.  I used to be brill. I wonder, though.  Will I ever have this much fun again?

Not bloody likely.

The Waving Baby Panda Has Eased My Suffering A Bit...

My Royal Baby Vomville Situation has been briefly paused as I peeked at this tiny petal of a panda in China.

"Taken at the China Conservation and Research Centre for the Giant Panda at the Wolong Nature Reserve in Sichuan, the shots of these tiny bears will no doubt be stealing the limelight from America's fourth-month-old sweetheart."

He's waving at me, you realize.

All I Want Is A Tidy Vom Bag. Is That So Difficult? Oh, And Polished Silver.

It appears The Royal Blabbermouth has indeed blabbed that The Royal Baby shall be born in July of 2013.  While running about, making announcements, one would assume someone--and at this juncture, I don't care whom--could fetch me a box of Vom Bags.  

These, to be precise:

This travel bag is designed for children and adults who suffer from travel sickness. It features a hygienic bag for urine or vomit and a refreshing cleaning wipe. The pocket-sized pack fits easily into handbags and glove compartments Available in a pack containing three individually packaged travel bags, 25cm x 25 cm with a pad able to absorb and solidify up to 500ml of vomit or urine.

May I kindly suggest that I'm asking for these VOM BAGS so that I may handle my unsightly condition in privacy? (Will They ever stop making me utter that product name?)

I will continue to pull a pinched smile as best as I am able. But without a proper Vom Bag tucked into my clutch, it will be YOU cleaning the sick off of ME.

I'm waiting.  The silver is waiting to be polished.  Bloody hell. I'm turning into Madonna.

'I'm feeling much better, thank you' -- Royal Fibs

Don't tell ME I'm fine. I'm bloody well NOT.

Am I coming in clear?  They forced me to give the following statement a few weeks ago:

'I'm feeling much better, thank you.'

I'm NOT feeling much better, thank you.  Alternately retching and hard vomming does not "feeling much better" make, my friends.   

I wish I could compose my own announcements regarding my Vom Situation, as They call my All Bleedin' Day Pregnancy Nausea. Just because I'm not in hospital, doesn't mean for one moment that I'm feeling able to do anything other than curl up in my bed (with Stefon, My gay Husband), watching hours and hours of telly. William's always working, so why shouldn't I continue to rest and regain my strength with someone who makes me blow weak tea out of my nose?

God Bless Little Lord Stefon.

Guess who taught me this pose.

Don't tell anyone, but I think Stefon is my Soulmate.

Finally. A Place To Express Myself Privately.

This "Official Portrait" has prompted me to use my voice.  I'm quite sure no one will read these words, so I feel secure knowing I can purge my entire dinner self of thoughts and feelings that I clearly am not able to speak aloud.

Firstly, REALLY? Is this how they see my visage--or is it how they WISH I looked? I prefer to think the latter, but I'm stuck having to publicly gush over this horrid mess.  Those Women (The Queen and That Camilla, heretofore referred to as THOSE WOMEN) were clearly in cahoots one drunken evening and plotted to have the "artist" (??) create some sort of pinched, aging and smirking face for me to pull--and in that bloody blue bargain basement dress again.  

Secondly, I may very well be With Royal Child, but I do not have a lazy eye. How dare Those Women.

I need some toffee pudding.