Monday
My phone hasn’t stopped ringing. Suddenly, everyone in the royal family wants to write their own memoirs, too.
So now I’m visiting Buckingham Palace to talk about working with the Queen.
And I’m suggesting that her book could be called Third Person.
“What fun!” says Camilla.
Although then she says she doesn’t get the title. Which is a blow because I thought it was quite clever.
“It’s because of the Royal We,” says the King, confidently. “Third person. Yes?”
“Not quite,” I say, politely.
“Because we is first person,” agrees the press secretary.
“Stop that,” says the Queen. “You’re a commoner.”
“No, listen,” I say. “It’s because of the Diana thing? Three people in the marriage? So the King is first person, and she’s second person. Right?”
“Third person is me?” says the Queen.
“But me is also first person,” says the press secretary.
“As if!” says the Queen. “I never even touched him.”
“And anyway,” says the King. “That would have been four people.”
“Oh forget it,” I say. “This isn’t going to work.”
Tuesday
So now I’m meeting with the Prince of Wales. His, I reckon, could be called Heir.
“Not keen,” says William. “Sounds moany. Don’t want to go for the sympathy vote.”
“Heir,” I say again. “Not Hair.”
“Oh,” says the prince.
“But my main worry,” I tell him, “is that actually Princess Catherine might be more interesting than you are.”
She’s here, too. They look at each other.
“Are you sure?” says William, doubtfully.
Kate is thrilled. Apparently nobody has ever told her before that she’s more interesting than anyone.
“Unless,” I say, “we’re going to tackle those rumors. You know the ones. That nobody ever quite wants to say out loud.”
“You mean the thing about the bridesmaids’ dresses,” says Kate.
“No I don’t,” I say.
“Yes you do,” says William, very quickly.
Wednesday
Not sure that one is going to work, either. Now I’m taking a meeting with the Duke of York.
“So we’d call it No Sweat,” I say. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” says Andrew.
Then he says it will be the story of a normal sort of guy, who can eat in a Woking pizzeria without anyone noticing. But also, he says, it will actually be quite similar to Prince Harry’s book.
“Because you’re both second sons?” I say.
“Partly!” he says. “But also because I also have a really important story about my todger!”
“But you might one day regret sticking it in,” I say, carefully.
“Oh I already do,” he says. “Because it cost Mummy 12 million quid.”
“So we’d call it No Sweat,” I say. “Obviously.”
Thursday
And now I’m meeting with his ex-wife and her personal assistant in a central London apartment. But I don’t think it’s a great idea.
“Look, will anyone care?” I say. “You’ve already written two.”
Fergie looks startled.
“Sorry,” she says. “What’s this about?”
“Writing a tell-all memoir,” I remind her.
“Oh, how funny!” she says. “I thought it was just one of those meetings where somebody meets me in a swanky London flat and promises to wire me a huge amount of money for no particular reason at all!”
“Er, no,” I say.
“My bad,” says her personal assistant, looking at her phone. “That one is this afternoon.”
Friday
I think I’m done with this. Might go back to writing about sports stars.
Before I do, though, I’ve one final Zoom with Meghan and Harry themselves.
Although I tell them I’m honestly not sure there’s much left to say.
“Call yourself a professional?” says Meghan. “Two of our chickens just got Netflix deals.”
Then Harry says that it seems to him that the big story is actually about the last few days.
“Because the whole world is smirking at me,” he says, furiously, “for things I didn’t even say.”
“About his todger,” agrees Meghan.
“For example,” says Harry. “So my next book is going to be all about how annoying and invasive it is having to have a ghostwriter in the first place.”
“So where do I fit in?” I say.
“Oh get real,” says Meghan. “It’s not like he’s going to write it himself.”
*According to Hugo Rifkind
Hugo Rifkind is a columnist for The Times of London. He hosts a roundup of the week’s news and culture on Times Radio every Saturday