At nigh on the eleventh hour The Invite did arrive via a short sweaty FedEx man full of profuse apologies. I did lady slap him after I snatched away The Envelope bearing the Royal Seal -- because you just can't get good help these days.
This was followed by a quick email to the Lord Chamberlain (or LoChas to his friends) to let him know I was on my way and to secure my place on the number 2 table at the reception - which I envisaged would have me sitting cosily between Elton and Becks.
Humphrey was an apology (as he is often wont to be) because he was still shearing (so we might have warm coats for the coming
It was fortunate that One already had One's luggage packed and I again had to slap the help when the little swarthy taxi driver whinged at my insistance that he carry the YSL trunk on his back from the taxi to the airport check-in counter. He didn't seem to understand that a trunk made from 345 hand-tanned pelts of albino Mongolian mountain gnats commanded a little deference. My ostrich skin handbag was well up to the task of vigorously and repetitively meeting the swarthy man's black head with no ill effect (to the bag).
If that little vignette wasn't enough the little minx at the check-in counter kept insisting that I was in fact booked in
"There is going to be a charge for excess," she said scowling at me.
The little swarthy man started to whine about not being able to feel his legs, so I beat him.
"What do you mean EXCESS?" I was getting a little frayed at this stage.
"You are able to take 23 kilos, which is usually one large suitcase, plus hand luggage. That lot will set you back several hundred dollars," she snapped.
"Well, the trunk goes into the undercarriage," I said sweetly, "and the rest is hand luggage."
"You can't take fifteen pieces of hand luggage. Just one."
"And WHAT, pray, do you suggest I do with the rest of my luggage?"
"Not my problem."
Quivering with rage I turned to the little swarthy taxi driver, who was almost bent double under my trunk, and beat him, again. The ensuing minutes were so traumatic that I am unable, right now, to recount them. Lets just say there is a happy little Indian family somewhere in the suburbs enjoying my Hermes scarves, La Perla lingerie and La Prairie concoctions (which we all know are made from tinctures of diamond, gold and pearls and essence of Dodo bird.).
Of course, Lady Charlotte often attracts attention wherever she goes. She likes to think it is because of her desirable physical features, flamboyant personality and philanthropic nature. Not that those endearing traits meant much to the knuckle draggers who manned the security x-rays at the airport. Charlotte was convinced the security man was eyeing her fetching outfit as she gently placed her Kelly bag on the conveyor belt.
"Madam, step over here please," the man indicated with a little white stick thingy.
"What do you mean weapon, you ridiculous creature," I was aghast.
"You must remove it madam or you may not board the aircraft."
"The osprey feather stays on my hat! Do you know how much it cost? What else would I use it for? To clean my nails? Poke someone's eye out? A bit of in-flight surgery?"
Unfortunately security in the form of black suits and wrist radios convinced me that it would be a good idea to leave the hat behind, unless I would prefer a cavity search, for all the other weapons that I might hide, in my lower bowel or vagina.
Thankfully boarding the plane was uneventful. I do suspect that I was perhaps the only person in ecommony attending The Wedding. My seat left a little to be desired - the middle of the middle row.
Oh God help me.
A very smelling looking man with dreadlocks is slowing down and looking at .... oh dear....sitting...next...to ..me.....
Stay tuned for the next exciting episode oooofffffff......Charlotte at the Palace