i managed to shake off the crowd of palace visitors who were admiring my sceptre and staff.
on the way back to my retiring room - so called because the chamber maid is over 65 - i glanced out of the window
and saw the crowds queueing for just a glimpse of me.
i felt sorry for them.
they'd paid ten pounds to get in, and five pounds for one of doris's treacle and dirt scones, and i was in a giving sort of mood.
so i stepped out onto my balcony, brandished my regalia, and reminded them that we were shutting in ten minutes and any stragglers would be manhandled all the way back to the ferry terminal.
as i walked back into the room, a voice breathed at me: 'you can manhandle me any time'.
doris had changed into a see through plastic mac which would have been enough to cover the pitch at wembley.
beneath this she was wearing what can only be described as a bra put together with the aid of two coal scuttles and a snake belt.
her knickers probably consumed enough cotton to treble kwiksave's profits (you didn't know they did knickers, did you?).

to be frank, which i'm not, i didn't know where to put myself.

she stepped towards me seductively, the plastic squeaking so much it cracked the glass in the window.
fortunately, this unique sound also cracked the glass in her glasses, and she got a bit disorientated and tried to mate
with the hat stand.

last time i looked she was whispering sweet nothings to my mother in law's trilby.

a lucky escape for me, and no mistake.