The BBC just called. Asking me, begging me, for some anecdote, however lame, just to fill the suspension of news. I thought long and hard and then it came to me. How could I have forgotten! It was a while back. In the theatre. We were all asked to line up. I thought we were going to be shot. Then I see him coming down the line. A familiar face. He got to me and before he had a chance I said, ' so Phillip, what do you do?' His shoulders shot back and he replied, ''I'm a prince''. I said ''we know what you are, but what do you do?'' Then there seemed to be someone whispering ''move him on'', or maybe I imagined that. He did move on but as he did he looked back, paused, smiled, looked me right in the eyes and wagged his finger. I almost expected him to say, ''2pm tomorrow, Rule's Restaurant''. 

Bloke on TV tellin the interviewer that Prince Phillip was not really racist, that he was always pushing you, testing you and so on. He said the prince was, for him, a great ''sparring partner'' and once asked, ''you believe don't you?'' Bloke says he replied, ''of course I do you daft cracker, I'm the Archbishop of York!''

Racist, xenophobic tabloid press write for decades about racist, xenophobic Prince Phillip, then when he dies tells everyone, 'you didn't really know him'.

The Times wrote that Boris, 'the cock', Johnson was 'pining', not for the fjords but for Chequers, 'his spiritual home'. So charming to think of him up there fiddling while Northern Ireland burns.

If I hear Elgar's Nimrod one more time I shall drink my weight in Vermouth.

It's a shame Prince Phillip died. I feel I am just getting to know him. Bit too late now I suppose to write to let him know we had many things in common. Both citizens of nowhere. Both generously letting our spouses get all the credit. Both hate the toxic British press. Both revered by tribes in the Pacific. We can't deny he had an interesting life, albeit at my expense. Then there is the other man I should have corresponded with. Churchill. Both of us renowned bathers and more than a passing interest in soup. So before it's too late I will put pen to paper and send off some missives to both Boris Johnson and that other bloke, the son of James Fox. To be continued....

Three hours till the curfew.....It's true, nobody is forcing me to watch the British news, watch the television, listen to the radio, read a newspaper, go online at all. In fact I just went to hang the washing out and there on the balcony I could hear a bird singing his little heart out. ''Pippit, pippit, pippit'', he sang. ''How lovely'', I thought. ''What a refreshing change''. It then dawned on me. He was a monarchist bird, probably a Royal Thrush. ''Prince Phillip, Prince Phillip, Prince Phillip''.

Thought of the day. I think I'd like to know a little bit more about Prince Phillip.