Don't we all feel sorry for the Countess of Wessex? Just a tiny little bit?
Well, to be truthful, not a lot. Yes, it's a bit sad to see someone pilloried in the tabloids, but in the one to one hundred stakes of asking for it I think it must be said that she's somewhere in the top nineties.
For a start she is a member of the royal family and I would assume that anyone who has the now somewhat dubious privilege of becoming a royal gets a little bit of a lecture before joining the firm.
In the light of what has happened previously I would think this lecture includes a few tips about not slagging off anyone unless you are in the confines of your own private bed chamber, and perhaps not even then, not talking to the press, ever; and never assuming anyone is a very rich Arab just because he is wearing a Lawrence of Arabia outfit.
The lecture probably also contains a few tips on keeping out of the way of the Duke of Edinburgh when he's in a bad temper. Or if it didn't, it probably does now.
Of course we can't blame the poor woman for bitching, because all of us bitch from time to time. It's part of human nature and anyone who says they don't occasionally make a less than kind remark about someone else is either a past master at self delusion or in line for some kind of sainthood.
It's just that most of us have a sort of in-built warning system that stops us from doing it too loudly, too long or to the wrong person.
It doesn't always work, of course, and I'm sure many of us have been caught out by an incautious ' Goodness me, look at that woman in that hideous floral dress, she looks like a walking herbaceous border' only to discover they are standing next to her husband.
I always give a warning to young journalists to be very careful if they have to ring up people to try to identify people in photographs.
You will, I tell them, almost certainly find that the 'fat woman with the ginger moustache' is the person you have rung up.
Similarity, when in a council meeting and unable to identify one of the councillors don't write 'man in funny trousers with wart on nose' in case he is standing behind you when you read this description out to someone you have asked for help.
Of course there are other pitfalls. When I first moved to Cornwall 25 years ago one of first things a kindly soul told me was never to criticise anyone in the village to anyone else because they were sure to be related.
And oh, what a useful piece of advice that was. Advice I followed to the letter but advice others didn't and found themselves ostracised after loudly declaring that the plumber was a total moron with a brain the size of a hamster's and that he had the face of a wart hog only to find they were talking to a second cousin twice removed.
You find out, however, that it is perfectly alright for the second cousin twice removed to criticise his relative and you will be regaled with stories of how he is so dishonest he will steal the tyres off your car while you are still sitting in it parked outside his house. But woebetide you if you agree and add your own comments.
It takes an awful long time for you to be able to join in with even the slightest criticism of anyone who is remotely related to anyone else even if that person hasn't spoken to the relative for 15 years.
It's best to assume that the time it will take is never, and keep the old lip buttoned.
As I left the house this morning our grey cat Oscar was in his favourite place in the kitchen, sitting on the sink watching the tap. He has an absolute fascination for water and if you turn the tap on will firstly dab his paw under it and suck the water off, and then lean over and 'snatch' mouthfuls of water. Put water on the floor and he will ignore it, however.
He has recently developed a rather clever trick which is perplexing his brother Jefferson. On occasions someone will put their food in the same bowl, which annoys both of them and occasionally leads to growling.
What he does now is to stand next to the bowl while Jefferson is eating, stretch out a paw and hook food out from under his brother's nose and flick it onto the floor, whereupon he then eats it. Jefferson's reaction is to look somewhat puzzled as the food disappears.
Our next door neighbours will be moving soon, which is a pity because they are nice neighbours. The cats will miss tormenting their two little dogs, either by streaking across the garden just as one of them nods off in the conservatory, climbing nearby trees and doing the cat equivalent of blowing a raspberry at them, or on more than one occasion trespassing in the house dangerously close to the dogs, but never close enough.
I don't know whether the new people have cats but if they have we will have to go through all those territory establishing rituals, the growling, the spitting, the hole digging and the spraying.
I suppose it's just as well we humans don't have to do that. All we do is take over a Victoria sponge. Boring really.