Not Another Story about Princess Diana

“What am I on, stripes?” Eddie took his time in surveying the table. “So you’ve got to see the Consul, do you know what for? It’s probably something to do with pissing in Princess Di’s Memorial Fountain because the restroom had closed at Waterloo Railroad Station in London. What was it you said? ‘All water and no loo.’ They call a restroom a loo in England,” he said to anyone within earshot.

The traffic on Wilshire was as bad as Steve remembered it but Pam managed to find a parking place while surviving Steve’s lecture on the Ambassador Hotel.

”...and Xavier Cugat used to play in the Coconut Grove. I’ve just thought of something.”

“We’re at the wrong place?”

“No. Well not exactly, but if we park in the same building as the consulate we could get our parking validated, and it wouldn’t cost us anything.”

“But if, as you say, we’ll only be there an hour is it worth it?”

“Well it would be under cover so it would keep the car cool.”

“You just want to get a few dollars out of them, while on the other hand we could be parking in the same place as Carole Lombard and Clark Gable.”

“I wonder if the Brown Derby’s near here?”

Twenty minutes later they were in an ante room of the British Consulate, after having made themselves known to the well-bred receptionist who, in deference to Openess in Government wore a badge which proclaimed her name to be Joanne Mortimer and her function to be a Consular aide.

“She seems nice,” Pam ventured after they seated themselves.

“They breed them in Surrey, and when they’re old enough, they either send them to places like this or to work for Richard Branson or an answering service. You remember when I phoned Dave and this bird answered, sounded just like her; I thought Dave had gone straight.

Twenty minutes later they were still there and Steve decided to let his feelings be known. “Excuse me but the appointment was for nine-thirty and as we have another appointment we have to leave by ten-thirty.”

“Yes we reckoned this would take an hour which would give us time to get to our next appointment in Santa Monica.”

“Mister Jackson. May I call you Steven? Charles Chaddersley-Corbett.” He smiled showing teeth that matched his gleaming half inch of cuff. His handshake was firm without disguising the fact that he was a Freemason. “Do sit down. Can we get you something, tea, coffee, water? I suppose it’s a bit too early for...” He looked at his watch. “Of course, ten in the morning. I always get confused going west but never do going east. What about you?”

“Yes, England,” Charles said as though he had spotted a familiar landmark. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Not at all, as long as it takes no more than forty minutes. My wife wants two hours on the beach. We have to get to Santa Monica by eleven, leave here at ten thirty.”

so I was born in Coseley. Unless somebody’s moved the goal posts again. After all they changed the area of the Black Country.”

Charles steepled his fingers. “Would it be safe to assume you were born in England?”

“As houses sir.”

“Good. Please call me Charles. Now...” as Charles found his place on the paper and in the conversation,…

“I don’t know who told you about me having a slash in Diana’s fountain, but it was just a joke. Listen, if you wanted to shed a tear for the old country at Waterloo, and the toilets were closed, you wouldn’t march half way across London to do it in Di’s fountain would you? I mean you could do it in the Thames, and those arches, they stink so much nobody would...”