(Scene: Buckingham Palace, Wednesday early evening. The Queen is writing in her diary when she finds that she is having problems with her fountain pen. Enter The Queen into sitting-room, where Philip is studying the sports pages of The Daily Telegraph).
Queen: I say Philip, the nib of this Conway Stewart is playing up. I’ve got an ink blot to rival Winnie Churchill’s on his Harrow Latin paper in the middle of today’s diary entry.
Philip: Can’t help you old girl, don’t know a bean about pens. Knew a chap once who did. Always had a Bic or two about his person. Swore by them.
Queen: One can’t use a Bic. These are the Royal Diaries! Can’t someone nip down to Fortnum’s – where’s Harry?
Philip: Harry? Good Lord, Harry doesn’t know what a §$%&/ pen is! He’s got 3 mobile telephones and one of those gadgets he sticks in his ear! And I don’t think he could find Fortnum’s without a radar and a helicopter!
Queen: Yes but he is good at standing in queues in shops. His mother used to take him to those Scottish chip parlours all the time, if one believes everything one is obliged to read.
Philip: I assume you’re talking about McDonalds. Listen, if one is not going to be allowed to read the sports pages in peace, then give me the wretched pen and I’ll find someone to sort it out. The Prime Minister barely has anything to do, from what I can make out from this newspaper!
Queen: Well that is awfully good of you Philip. If one doesn’t write today’s entry by this evening one will be getting behind and that won’t do.
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