H.R.H. Victoria

As you might recall, well those of you with a mental capacity greater than that of a turnip, yesterday my daughter Beatrice was trying to open a bottle of beer with her teeth. In this folly she was singularly unsuccessful, she did however manage to shatter two of her incisor and one of her canine teeth, in addition to the bottle which fell from her grasp whilst she was experiencing what appeared to be some discomfiture.

I now regret allowing Mr. Brown to teach her this trick, or to be more precise I now regret allowing Mr. Brown to teach her this trick unsuccessfully. We will now have to visit the odontological practitioner Sir Edwin Saunders in Wimbledon. There are no reserves in my imagination as to the amount of anguish and perturbation that the encounter between Sir Edwin and Beatrice will produce. Thank you Mr. Brown.

We do have here a couple of people whom I believe you refer to as National Health Service 'dentists'. One is a gentleman and one a lady, both from the ancient and esteemed country of Poland, both of whom are prematurely deceased due to an inopportune occurrence between their horseless carriage and a somewhat formidable brick wall. However one does prefer the attentions of Sir Edwin as he has a title, which was bestowed upon him by myself.

On the subject of Poland I feel it incumbent upon myself to apologise to the good people of Poland for the invasion of their country in 1939 by Mr. Hitler. The endeavours of Mr. Hitler were no doubt inspired by the earlier unsuccessful attempts at world domination perpetrated by my one-armed lunatic of a grandson Wilhelm. Sorry Poland.

I have to go now as Beatrice is inflicting insufferable annoyance upon my sensibilities with her incessant wailing and gnashing of her remaining teeth. Stupid girl.

H.R.H. Victoria

Dear God!. How many imbeciles should it be possible to assemble on one small island?. I refer of course to the Isle of Wight. This evening whilst perambulating the promenade of East Cowes myself and dear Albert were accosted by an assortment of urchins, one of whom enquired of me " 'ere, are you the queen?", to which my reply was "Yes, you repugnant child", at which he and his compatriots fell about laughing. It was at this point that I instructed Mr.Brown (always in attendance) to shoot him in the testicles.

I fear that reports of this incident, if I can not manage to keep it quiet by bestowing a considerable amount of money upon the urchin's family, will result in disquiet among the local townspeople. Therefore should it become necessary to preclude the possibility of any untoward actions on behalf of the townspeople I propose to hold a party for them. This occasion would be called the 'Peasants' Festival', I think that it would be a great success.

It could be held on the beach here at Osborne, thus keeping the hoi polloi a sufficiently great distance from the house and also increasing the possibility of death by misadventure, in the form of drowning. Please do not think me harsh or uncaring, it is simply that one must do all that one can to preserve the line of succession by eliminating the competition, who knows how many claimants our idiot son Bertie might have sired?.

I have to go now as Beatrice is stamping on a gerbil. Stupid girl.