Monday

“It’s a big week!” says Charlie, once the toothpaste man has gone. Then, after a while, he says it again.

“Big. Week. For me. A big week.” I’m gargling my voddy mouthwash. Helps with the old fag breath. “Sorry darling,” I say, spitting into the sink. “I thought you were talking to the petunias. A big week? Is it?”

Charlie rubs his hands together, as excited as a little boy. “Oh Dobbin!” he says affectionately. “I do so love the way you tease!” How peculiar. Maybe he’s found a new building to dislike, or developed some new sausage I’m supposed to know about. “Remind me,” I say, carefully. “What are we up to this evening?”

“France, old Ned,” says Charlie. “Armistice Day. Remember?” Of course! We’re meeting Carla Bruni! That must be it, the randy old goat. Probably best to have another voddy. No harm in doubling up.

Tuesday

“Don’t sigh, Eeyore,” says Charlie, looking at me fondly across the bald head of the shoelace man. “She’s pretty, but she’s not as pretty as you.” A horrible day yesterday. Although these French, they are smooth, aren’t they? In another country, had I got the First Lady up against the back of a war memorial, put an elbow in her throat and told her to stop fluttering her greasy slut eyelashes, I’m sure they’d have minded. Not here. Not at all.

After the shoelace man has gone, and the wristwatch man and the tie-pin man have been in to do their stuff, Charlie tells me I seem perturbed. And I am. I can’t escape the feeling I’ve forgotten about something. “Chin up, Mr Ed,” says Charlie. “Just get me some cufflinks.” I suppose it must be the cufflinks man’s day off.

Wednesday

He’s still being very strange. We have an evening with comedians. These things are always excruciating because he gets far too excited and I never know who anyone is. “Edmund!” he roars, introducing me to a strange little man who looks like our new Prime Minister. “Rowan,” says the little man.

“Williams?” I say, looking around. “Hahahaha!” shrieks Charlie, and then runs off to recite some nonsense about parrots to that lanky chap who used to run an hotel. Later, inexplicably, he tells me that he’s worried that his mother must be feeling very old. I tell him I’m feeling bloody ancient.

Thursday

Into the Palace for a quick chat with Philip. Always good to pick his brain. Kindred spirits. Whole sideboard full of kindred spirits, in fact. My job is to smuggle in the fags.

“He’s being odd,” I tell Philip. “Odder than usual, even. All excitable and happy. Philip says it’s probably the thrill of meeting Carla Bruni. “Woof,” he adds. “Grrr. Wouldn’t ’alf.” I tell him that I thought the same, but he was just as excited about the comedians. “Gibbering on about parrots?” says Philip.

“Yes,” I sigh. Philip says he’s never understood that, either. Then I tell him what he said about his mother feeling old. Philip wonders whether it mightn’t be one of her birthdays soon. I tell him I’m pretty sure we’ve had two this year already.

Friday

“Hi-ho Silver!” trills Charlie, once the alarm clock man has been in to stop the buzzing. “Today’s the day! Don’t feel a day over 59 ! Now where’s my present?” “Present?” I say, lifting my head from the pillow.

“Don’t be a tease!” giggles Charlie. “Would I look a gift horse in the mouth?” “Sorry,” I say, and I reach for the vodka mouthwash. “Heavy night.”

Explore UK News

• Crime News

• Education News

• Health News

• Scotland News

Times Recommends

• Charles blazes trail as sun king
• Thalidomiders win payout 50 years on
• Libel gag on talk of 'medical hurricane'