I have been thrown into some confusion by the terrible events in the underwear industry.
No doubt you will know, and be as horrified as I was to have discovered, that Rigby and Peller, knicker suppliers to Her Majesty The Queen, have lost their Royal Warrant.
They are also the suppliers of my own smallclothes, as regular readers might recall.
I have been profoundly shocked by Her Majesty’s withdrawal of her custom, which appears to have been because her own bra fitter has published a book, Revealing All, called Storm In A D Cup.
How she could have done such an unspeakably dreadful thing is completely beyond me. The Queen’s relationship with her underwear, as far as I can see, is entirely her own business, and not at all the sort of thing that should be revealed to the nation, in any sense of the word.
Therefore, in solidarity with our dear Queen, I have decided to withdraw my own custom from them. In any case, if Number Two Daughter does, in the end, decide to marry Prince Harry, I would not want the lady who fits my underwear to be ringing up the Daily Mail with details of my spare tyre or remarks about the frequency of my armpit-shaving activities.
This boycott is not an entirely disastrous activity, since there are one or two other shops who sell the brands of underwear that I favour. The thing is that I have got absolutely no idea what it all is.
I do not actually know what size I am, as such vulgar and potentially unflattering discussions are not in the remit of the charming and once reliably discreet staff of Rigby and Peller. They do not even measure you. Your dignity is preserved by the expertise of the staff, who eye you up as you come through the door, and then whilst you are drinking your welcome glass of Prosecco, produce various pieces of underwear that they have decided will be the very best fit.
Then they get your husband drunk whilst you try it all on, and when you have decided which things make you look marginally thinner, and he has become cross-eyed with trying to choose between pink gingham and black lace, they encourage him to get his credit card out.
This is not an activity to be undertaken on a tight budget.
It might be that it is not an activity in which I will ever indulge again.
I feel sad about this, but would like to stand by the Queen.
I am going to have to telephone them, and ask them for my size and a list of the things that I like best. It is peculiar to think that the Queen will have had to do this as well.
I am sad about this today. I will have to find another knicker shop now.
Fortunately I am not in need of new underwear just at the moment, which is just as well as we are not earning very much money. I am on the taxi rank and it feels a bit like being the last person alive just before the first zombie shuffles around the corner.
We emptied the trailer of firewood this morning, and stacked it all safely under cover in the wood sheds, which was wonderful. Mark refilled the trailer today, for me to empty in the morning. We have now got enough wood now to keep us going for some considerable time, and also to keep the house beautifully warm if the forecast snow turns up next week. I can hardly describe what a relief that is.
I bathed the dogs whilst he was collecting firewood, because they smelled vile, and then cleaned the bathroom. This is a natural segue in occupations. In the end I came out to work.
I have had a swim, and sent a photograph to Number One Son-In-Law, who needs one for Ritalin Boy to take to school. They are studying family trees and wanted a picture of a grandparent to stick on the display on the wall.
I have attached my chosen picture at the top, because it is one of my favourites. I feel it captures something of my Inner Self.
You have seen it before but I have added it again anyway.
