THE FOUND DIARY OF HARRY WINDSOR– MOUNTBATTEN-SUSSEX- TO BE DETERMINED…

by Mollie Fermaglich

Dear Diary,

Yesterday morning I made my way down to the gourmet kitchen of our Montecito cottage, (Mont Cott), and heard my beloved wife screaming at our executive chef, calling him, “…nothing more than a common, hourly-wage, talentless plonker!” and, as he threw his chef’s jacket on the counter and stormed out she called after him, “Remember, you signed an NDA!” She then dropped to the floor, sobbing that he’d been bullying her, and asked, “H – when is this systemic racism going to end?” and did I have Gordon Ramsey’s phone number.

Oh, H,” she said as she wiped the tear from her left eye, “I wish we could just buy some indentured servants so then no one could quit,” and I told her that was like slavery, and she said, “Not if they’re white people.” She had a point.

I didn’t see either of our dear children, Archie and Lilibet but instead, there was a large Paddington bear in each of their high chairs, so I asked my darling Megs where the children were and she said they were right there in their high chairs and that I was silly, because children change so much from week to week, and I thought how lucky I was to have married such a smart wife and devoted mum.

A little later I headed to our spacious backyard, searching for our Paddington Bear children when Megs ran to me, upset. “I’m trying to reach my agents at WME but keep getting the same message: The number you are calling is out of order, followed by, “The Duchess of Sussex who?”

Then she pulled out her daybook. Talk about a busy day: Meghan markle’s day planner

1. Remember to not call my father.
2. Fire someone.
3. Steal ideas from Martha and Gwyneth for future lifestyle blog – brainstorm with myself re: lifestyle brand, decide on what I can merch on American Riviera Orchard. Get wholesale price on scented candles, salad spinners and labels to slap over Bonne Maman preserves jars with Duchess of Sussex stickers. Figure out what the mark-up should be on royal beer koozies.
4. Fire someone else.
5. Call Archie’s godfather, Tyler Perry, to see how pre-production is going on his next film, “Madea Buys the Tower of London and Forces Royal Family to Become Beefeaters.”
6. Find a sad, sad event somewhere where there are sad, sad people. Alert paps. Bring sad, sad people Trader Joe’s bouquet. And Pringles.
7. Call Oprah and say, “…I know, but I’m still thinner. And younger.”
8. Fire everyone.

She made me get to work on My Archewell “Lower Your Carbon Footprint Initiative” speech in Cabo next week, and made a mental note to call Katy Perry to see if we could borrow her private jet, And, of course, the lawsuits. America’s First Amendment is bonkers because you can find a loophole in anything, like the choice to hide every fact about your children’s births and hopefully, admitting you are a drug user on your visa application.

“Have you seen Lilibet?” she asked and when I shrugged she told me to search our large property and so it was time for my favorite game, “Capture the White Child.” Brilliant!

Later that evening over lobster frittatas and a bottle of Pouilly something, we discussed our upcoming trip abroad where we would be receiving the Croix de Guerre for our bravery storming the beaches at Normandy. I’ve bought been awarded so many plaques and ribbons that soon I’ll have enough to replace the ones Pa took away from me for no good reason.

Megs will be right at my side, clutching my arm like it’s a subway pole in the middle of a 7.3 magnitude earthquake. Except when we’re meeting celebrities and kings, where she pushes ahead of me, protecting me from possible landmines. Once again she said had absolutely nothing to wear but I re-assured her they sell plenty of wrinkled, ill-fitting beige frocks in the UK.

Once our IPP security status is restored, Megs and I and our children, if we locate them, will undertake a royal tour of our own. We’ll go on tour, like those Four Tenors. Common folk will line the streets. Little girls will shower Megs with cheap bouquets of flowers and toxic stuffed animals with those plastic googly eyes loose enough for toddlers to choke on them. And my darling wife will accept them graciously before she tosses them in the bin and orders a courtier to bring her a vat of Purell.

“But H,” she said, “What if there are still no air fresheners in St. George’s Chapel? What if they engage us in a two-hour high speed chase through Harrod’s? What if Princess Charlotte won’t share her toys or the $1,000,000,000 left to her by Granny?”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff,” I said. “We’ll probably be able to guilt Pa into letting us rule the Commonwealth from Montecito.”

“Great! I’ll take the Bahamas, Barbados and Turks and Caicos.”

I told her that it was William who influenced Granny. When he accepts the fact that you are our Mum, he’ll do anything we ask because he would never say no to Mum. Megs said that she was my mum, but a better version because she would never wear mom jeans or that or that red jumper with the black sheep.”

I believed her. She smelled like Mum and why would she have a tattoo on her lower back that said, “Harry, I am your Mum”? And then, just like my mum, she said, “Harry – be quiet.”