Monday

“OH CHARLES?” intones a baritone voice in one’s Highgrove greenhouse.

“Yes?” one says, to one’s eight-foot flesh-eating Venus flytrap. “Yes, Master?” One has had this plant since it was a sapling. One found it in the grounds, possibly after a meteor strike. It grew and grew. One has always conversed with one’s plants, and one was thrilled, initially, to meet one capable of speaking back. Initially, it would wish one a good morning, and we would discuss architecture, or the environment, or other matters of mutual interest. Of late, alas, it tends to say: “COWER, EARTHLING BEFORE OUR ALIEN WRATH!” and snap, brutally, at one’s head. It is dashed concerning. One has a steady supply of venison, obviously, but one is also running low on gardeners.

Today, the plant is concerned about the genetic modification of plant life.

“WE FEAR THE RISE OF INTELLIGENT EARTHLING BOTANY! YOU MUST STAVE OFF COMPETITION! OR FACE OUR INTERPLANETARY FURY!” One promises to see what one can do.

Tuesday

An audience with Papa up at Windsor. He’s standing in front of his mirror with a footman, being kitted out to go hunting something. I don’t know what. It could be anything. It could be me.

“Gaaaaah!” he says, or words to that effect. “Found yer mither’s bliddy corgi yet, what? Not seen it since it blundered interr yer greenhouse!” “No, Papa,” one says, and one shudders. One only found the collar and the teeth.

“Now listen here,” he says, “Big Ears. I won’t be around for ever. Need to stand on yer own two feet. Be a man. Time to make some bliddy gaffes, what? Show the buggers who’s boss. Be rude about somebody.” One clears one’s throat and explains that one thought one might say something about genetically modified foods in the developing world. Papa is silent for a while. “Wogs, is it?” he says, eventually.

Wednesday

What a blasted, awful day. Because of the plant, one hasn’t let Camilla near the greenhouse for weeks. She assumed that one was secretly growing pot, and let it slip to Harry. So in he went, on the rampage.

Dashed lucky he had his bayonet on him, really. Came out with his shirt ripped off his back and his arm already in a makeshift sling. “Good s*** in there, Dad man,” he said, and went off up to his bedroom, to smoke one’s coriander.

“YOUR BOTANICAL ALIEN OVERLORD IS MOST DISPLEASED!” intoned the plant, afterwards. “THERE SHALL BE NO MORE DELAY! YOU SHALL ISSUE YOUR ANTIGM STATEMENT IMMEDIATELY!” “MOREOVER,” it added, after a while, “YOU SHALL NEVER AGAIN ATTEMPT TO FEED US A GINGER!” So that’s my plan to bump off Nicholas Witchell up the spout, as well.

Thursday

Papa is apoplectic. He calls early in the morning, having just read The Daily Telegraph. “Am I the only person in this bliddy family who knows how to make a gaffe?” he roars. “Multinational corporations? What’s on yer mind? Are you mad? Is that how yer going to cause offence when I’m dead and gone? What about darkies? The disabled? What about whoopsies and Ruskies and the bliddy A-rabs?” One wrings one’s hands. “It’s one’s blasted flesh-eating Venus flytrap alien overlord, Papa,” one explains. “One fears its interplanetary wrath.” Papa is irate. Sometimes, one is reminded that he spent many years in the Navy.

Friday

Papa arrives in his hunting clothes, with his shotgun and a bag. He tells one to wait at the greenhouse door. “COWER, EARTHLING!” shrieks my eight-foot Venus flytrap. Then there is a bang. Papa says he is going to have it stuffed, and hung over his bed.

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