a private nursing home. How my parents came to adopt me is still a bit of a mystery. All I know is that my ‘mother’ was desperate to have a baby and that my ‘father’ was an importer of cuckoo clocks.
As you cannot fail to see, I have enclosed the codicil letter. I await your reply with interest.
All best wishes from your son,
Graham Cracknall aka Windsor-Parker-Bowles
THE CODICIL
Only to be opened on the demise of both John Peter Cracknall and Maria Shirley Cracknall.
Dear Son,
Do not be too downcast because we are both dead. As Mr Fellows, our solicitor, will explain, we have left you the bungalow, the car and enough money to ‘spoil’ yourself with now and again.
All we ask is that you take care of Gin and Tonic for the restof their lives. We know you and Tonic do not always see eye to eye, Graham, but that is because of his diabetes, it makes him snappy and irritable when his blood sugar is low.
He has his insulin injection at eight o’clock every morning. It might be easier if he wears a muzzle until he gets used to you, but you must be firm with him, Graham. Don’t let him play you up, he can be a little tinker if he thinks he has got the better of you.
Gin, of course, is a sweetheart. He is used to having a few choc drops at around four o’clock in the afternoon. Please give them to him when Tonic is not looking.
I had better get to the important bit of this letter. Graham, me and your dad are not your real parents. We adopted you a few weeks after you were born on 21st July 1965 in Zurich, Switzerland.
The thing is, Graham, you have got royal blood in you. Your real father is the Prince of Wales and your real mother is Camilla Parker Bowles. So, Graham, you are the rightful second in line to the throne of England. That is the reason we have brought you up knowing about heraldry, British history and royal protocol.
It is up to you, Graham, as to what you do with this knowledge. You may want to remain a private citizen. On the other hand, you might well feel that you need to fulfil your destiny.
You have always been a good son to us and, apart from the incident at scout camp, have given us no trouble. Goodbye, son, and God bless.
Mum and Dad
As the little wooden cuckoo flew out of the clock above his head twelve times, signalling midday, Graham putthe two pieces of paper inside an envelope and stuck on a stamp bearing Oliver Cromwell’s warty head. After checking that all the doors and windows were locked, that there was nothing boiling on the stove, that the burglar alarm was in operation and that Gin and Tonic were asleep in their respective baskets, Graham slipped a can of pepper spray into his jacket pocket and walked the fifty yards to the postbox on the corner. Within five minutes he was back home and bolting the front door.
Meanwhile, in a locked ward in a hospital for the criminally insane, a patient, Lawrence Krill, was also writing to the future King of England.
Sire,
I beg your indulgence, my liege, to have recognizance of my advice to thee. I have it in my gift to grant you possession of a most wondrous particular: The Lost Crown of England. May my vitals be torn from my living belly if this be not true.
Write to me, do not tarry, my liege. All I ask as a reward is that you touch my scrofulous and most foul body to cure me of the King’s Evil. ’Tis this unholy affliction that doth condemn me to endure such cruel incarceration in this most cursed place: The Asylum of Rampton.
May the Almighty anoint thee with blessings.
I am, Sire, but a humble and unworthy petitioner,
Lawrence Krill
9
At eight thirty the next morning, the Queen, almost weeping with the pain of toothache, went next door and, without knocking, entered Violet Toby’s kitchen, leaving Harris and Susan protesting outside. For a moment, the Queen wondered who the old woman with the mad hair and pale face was, sitting at Violet’s little Formica table eating toast with HP sauce. She then realized it was
As you cannot fail to see, I have enclosed the codicil letter. I await your reply with interest.
All best wishes from your son,
Graham Cracknall aka Windsor-Parker-Bowles
THE CODICIL
Only to be opened on the demise of both John Peter Cracknall and Maria Shirley Cracknall.
Dear Son,
Do not be too downcast because we are both dead. As Mr Fellows, our solicitor, will explain, we have left you the bungalow, the car and enough money to ‘spoil’ yourself with now and again.
All we ask is that you take care of Gin and Tonic for the restof their lives. We know you and Tonic do not always see eye to eye, Graham, but that is because of his diabetes, it makes him snappy and irritable when his blood sugar is low.
He has his insulin injection at eight o’clock every morning. It might be easier if he wears a muzzle until he gets used to you, but you must be firm with him, Graham. Don’t let him play you up, he can be a little tinker if he thinks he has got the better of you.
Gin, of course, is a sweetheart. He is used to having a few choc drops at around four o’clock in the afternoon. Please give them to him when Tonic is not looking.
I had better get to the important bit of this letter. Graham, me and your dad are not your real parents. We adopted you a few weeks after you were born on 21st July 1965 in Zurich, Switzerland.
The thing is, Graham, you have got royal blood in you. Your real father is the Prince of Wales and your real mother is Camilla Parker Bowles. So, Graham, you are the rightful second in line to the throne of England. That is the reason we have brought you up knowing about heraldry, British history and royal protocol.
It is up to you, Graham, as to what you do with this knowledge. You may want to remain a private citizen. On the other hand, you might well feel that you need to fulfil your destiny.
You have always been a good son to us and, apart from the incident at scout camp, have given us no trouble. Goodbye, son, and God bless.
Mum and Dad
As the little wooden cuckoo flew out of the clock above his head twelve times, signalling midday, Graham putthe two pieces of paper inside an envelope and stuck on a stamp bearing Oliver Cromwell’s warty head. After checking that all the doors and windows were locked, that there was nothing boiling on the stove, that the burglar alarm was in operation and that Gin and Tonic were asleep in their respective baskets, Graham slipped a can of pepper spray into his jacket pocket and walked the fifty yards to the postbox on the corner. Within five minutes he was back home and bolting the front door.
Meanwhile, in a locked ward in a hospital for the criminally insane, a patient, Lawrence Krill, was also writing to the future King of England.
Sire,
I beg your indulgence, my liege, to have recognizance of my advice to thee. I have it in my gift to grant you possession of a most wondrous particular: The Lost Crown of England. May my vitals be torn from my living belly if this be not true.
Write to me, do not tarry, my liege. All I ask as a reward is that you touch my scrofulous and most foul body to cure me of the King’s Evil. ’Tis this unholy affliction that doth condemn me to endure such cruel incarceration in this most cursed place: The Asylum of Rampton.
May the Almighty anoint thee with blessings.
I am, Sire, but a humble and unworthy petitioner,
Lawrence Krill
9
At eight thirty the next morning, the Queen, almost weeping with the pain of toothache, went next door and, without knocking, entered Violet Toby’s kitchen, leaving Harris and Susan protesting outside. For a moment, the Queen wondered who the old woman with the mad hair and pale face was, sitting at Violet’s little Formica table eating toast with HP sauce. She then realized it was
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