Lundi

I am a new woman. Avant, je was la petite friend of many, many rock stars, et renowned across la France as le vélo du village. But now, je suis la demure First Lady. La panther who ’as come dans la maison. The nun avec le saucy glint in ’er eye. Right now, I am at a desk in our chambers, attending to the affairs of state in my finest lingerie. My little President, he is sitting up in bed, watching cartoons.

“Alors, cherie,” he says, with a yawn. “What are you going to wear?” I put down my pen. This is an important matter. Peut-être I will be the Iron Lady, avec blouses and bows. Or peut-être the late Queen Mother, comme une grande fluttery blancmange.

“Or,” leers my ’usband, “you be as in the photograph from your modelling days. The one being auctioned by Christie’s. Eh? Eh?” Non. This is the woman I was. A wild woman. A passionate woman. But the world must know that I ’ave changed. I am to meet the Queen. Le first impression est très important. Par example, quand je first met mon ’usband, he was standing sur une box.

Mardi

Into the Elysée Palace, where I am to pick up some briefing notes on the finer nuances of British politics. The President is with me. He is to pick up a new comic.

The guard on the door clicks his heels. My ’usband winks at him. “She’s avec moi,” he says. “Did you see le picture from Christie’s? Phwoar!” “Nicolas!” I chide. “We ’ave no time for ton traditional Gallic lechery! Tomorrow, on y va to Grande Bretagne! We ’ave beaucoup to decide! What is to be our position on nuclear power? Where do we stand avec le ratification of the Lisbon treaty? Le Common Agricultural Policy? Iraq? Afghanistan? What do nous pensons about China? Or Russia? We must be prepared.”

Nicolas sighs. “C’est vrai,” he says, gravely. “But you ’ave forgotten the most important question of all. Are you going to show a little leg?”

Mercredi

Donc, we are arrived in la Grande Bretagne in our aeroplane. My little President is sulking. He feels I am la dowdy, comme une grey nun.

“Nicolas!” I scold, peering out the window. “Maintenant! Put away ton Game Boy! For there is Prince Charles. Best behaviour!” “Sacré bleu!” roars Nicolas. “Quelle is this insult? He is avec un des Rolling Stones, qui est wearing a dress! J’espère que it n’est pas one que tu as shagged!” “C’est Camilla, Duchess de Cornouaille,” I point out.

“Ah,” says Nicholas.

Jeudi

Beacoup des banquets. At one, I am en conversation with the Duke of Édimbourg, qui est famed for his subtle British wit.

“Italian-born, aren’t you?” he says. “Not even a damned Frog! Colourful past, what?”

“Ah am a new woman,” I purr. “But once, monogamy bored me. I was a cat, a tamer of men.” “Sounds to me,” jokes le Duke, “like you were a right slapper!” Mon Dieu! ’Ow we laugh!

Vendredi

Our state visit to Londres, it is pronounced a success. We are both most pleased. I ’ave negotiated une nouvelle entente formidable, et Nicolas a un nouveaux Power Ranger he picked up in Hamleys.

Plus, je suis hailed as a style icon. No longer am I une voracious, accessible supermodel, comme une French Kate Moss. Now, I am une new Jackie Kennedy, une Evita Perón in les newspapers of le world. This is all très welcome. Not least because I ’ave a new album out.

“Les rosbifs,” grunts my ’usband. “They are not so bad, eh? Mais who was that creepy guy avec le sweaty ’andshake qui followed us around all the time, staring?”

“The Prime Minister,” I say. “C’est possible,” shrugs Nicolas. “Alors. Où est mon Scalextric?”

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