"Yes I said yes I will yes". It took almost as long as reaching the end of Ulysses, but Mrs Camilla Parker Bowles got to use some formulation of the famous end-phrase when, after 30 odd years of courtship, Prince Charles finally asked the big question.
No I said no I won't no I won't listen to another word about that wedding.
So you don't want to know about the dress (Robinson Valentine), hat (Philip Treacy), hair (Hugh Green) and wedding rings (traditional Welsh gold from the royal family's private collection of nuggets)?
No. And, anyway, won't it all be in Hello! at the hairdresser's?
Don't even want to know that Queen Elizabeth is reportedly furious that they are to marry like "commoners" in the town hall of Windsor (the castle is not licensed to hold registry weddings), won't go the civil ceremony and will later host a "finger buffet", not a "lavish banquet"? No? Sick to the teeth of it are you? Fine. If that's how you feel about it.
Well, sorry to mention it, but unless we have a Kodak moment in the peace process, Camilla will one day be princess consort to the king of one third of this island's population, not to mention nearly a million Irish resident in Great Britain and various countries - including Australia, Canada, and New Zealand - where the British monarch is still head of state. So we'd better get used to her. And first impressions - during her visit to Lismore, Co Waterford last year - seemed positive.
When Camilla marries she will become Her Royal Highness, the Duchess of Cornwall. Confused?
Who the hell is the Duke of Cornwall when he's at home and surely to God there are not going to be 'three of us in the marriage' this time round?
Fear not. Like any bride-to-be she faces many predicaments.
Such as: Won't the colour of the bridesmaids' dresses clash with Fergie's hair? Will the mother-in-law be in a good mood? Does the chef know that the King of Spain doesn't like foie gras? Shall we do roast swan followed by beef or salmon? Who's ensuring that Prince Harry is dressed properly? Oh, and which name will I choose?
The powers that be decided "Princess of Wales" would be inappropriate, but there was no shortage of alternatives. Prince Charles has a profusion of monikers. He was christened Charles Philip Arthur George in 1948. On the accession of his mother in 1952, he became heir apparent and automatically became Duke of Cornwall under a charter dating back to 1337, which gave that title to the sovereign's eldest son. Later, the queen gave him two further titles: Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester. Don't the royals give lovely presents (though the poor lad was secretly hoping for Scrabble and Hong Kong)? And just in case you are ever on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, he is known in Scotland as the Duke of Rothesay.
Does this stuff matter?
Well, it's good to know the neighbours and polite to know the form. And shouldn't we also expect that a well-informed Englishman would understand and appreciate the significance of titles like Uachtarán na hÉireann, Taoiseach, Tánaiste and Ceann Comhairle? It is a tradition that the royals sometimes travel throughout their kingdom after nuptials. So, how should readers in, say, West Belfast or Coleraine behave? There you are, walking home from the shops, when the Rolls glides to halt and suddenly you're on the receiving end of a walkabout. What would you say? How do you address a Duchess?
No, no, no, not that.
Please. "Heh, Duchess, 'ow you doin' darlin'?" is strictly Alfie Moon School of Etiquette or, possibly, accepted usage at private family gatherings in Buckingham Palace where apparently the Queen's favourite party piece is mimicking Cockney. No, the correct form of address is in fact: "Your Royal Highness", the first time you speak to her, and after that, "Ma'am". For himself, it's also the former followed by "Sir". Go on, they won't bite you.
Incidentally, Camilla will become the second most senior female member of Britain's royal family, deferring only to 'ERself. Poor Princess Anne must be bucking. She's not the only one. People who keep teddy bears in their bedrooms through middle age seem to regard Camilla as the wicked witch.
But she seems to laugh a lot, has an eye for a good hat, doesn't frighten the horses and, very wisely, doesn't talk to journalists. If you ever got invited round you'd figure she'd be wearing something vaguely naughty like Poison by Dior and would be generous with the gin. And you'd never have to ask guiltily, "Is there an ashtray in the house?" There'd be no tomfoolery with Tarot cards or crystal balls. No hugging the servants or having to listen to Elton John's new album.
She probably thinks that colonic irrigation is something that Charles is funding in drought-stricken Ethiopia, that Peter Mandelson would make a rather good footman, that the Scissor Sisters are jolly decent seamstresses, that tabloid newspapers are for house-training puppies and not confiding in, that Cherie Blair is getting much too big for her boots, that Franz Ferdinand started the first World War and that solving global misery is best left to politicians.
She'll never be queen of the bleeding hearts. But, at 57, with a prince hitched, and a diamond as big as the Ritz to prove it, she's the cat's whiskers and entitled to say: "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."