Kerre Woodham: Feeling like a right Charlie

Poor, poor Prince Charles. Welcome and all that, but really. Wouldn't you prefer to be home with your girl, rather than traipsing around godforsaken countries at the bottom of the world, on an utterly pointless PR trip?

The prospect of heading out to visit some boring yet worthy charitable institution to glad-hand the embarrassingly small number of people who've turned up to see you must bore you to sobs.

All the while, the British press dog you like hyenas stalking a wounded giraffe. You're hurt after the balls-up over your wedding, and who wouldn't be?

Your mother has behaved appallingly throughout, and the public's prurient fascination with that poor silly girl you married first time around is morbid in the extreme.

But the press scent blood. They're desperate for you to stuff up, so some ignominious image of you can be blasted all over the British dailies.

Oh, you'll survive it. After the Squidgy tapes, you can endure anything. But why should you have to? Give up the taxpayer-funded allowance, marry your girl and live off your investments. For once in your life do something you want to do. Cut the ties to your bloody family and give back the public purse and for the first time in your poor, benighted, privileged life, you'll be free.