Raced downstairs the minute I heard the postman, but it was the same old story. Nothing from the Queen - not even a farting greeting card from Prince Harry thanking me for the poem I did for his birthday. If he bothered to think about it, he'd realise there isn't actually a rhyme for Chelsy that isn't another name. I thought the Kelsey Grammer reference was inspired - the grammar pun lifted it into the sublime - but it's pearls before swine.
I just can't work with these people. Do they like it? Don't they? What does "thank you" mean?
"Thank you," the Queen said to me as she walked out of Westminster Abbey after I'd sweated blood on her 60th anniversary effort. But what did she mean by it? If only they knew how much the approval of a family of philistines and pseudo-mystics mattered to me.
Frankly, I'm just working out my notice now - filing enough poetry not to land me in a laureate disciplinary hearing, but no overtime.
Take today. Received a call from some under-butler who said he thought I should know that the Queen had thought it rather wet recently. I could tell he was hinting I might like to write a poem about it, but I wasn't giving anything away.
"Thank you," I said, noncommittally.
"Thank you?" he queried, sounding confused.
"Thank you," I breezed, even more forcefully. "Thank you!" Two can play at her game.