Dearest Harry and Meghan,
I am writing in regards to the birth of your son, for whom we are all anxiously awaiting a name, and it is precisely that name causing many a sleepless night. I am told by palace staff that I am wearing a path in the carpet due to my restless pacing. To that I say, “Sod off. I’m the Queen. I shall pace if I please.”
Since learning of your love, I have asked very little of you, and when I tempted to interfere, I instead busied myself by playing with the Corgis. I shan’t be able to give you an exact count of how often that occurred, but there are at least 200 tennis balls scattered in hiding somewhere in this palace.
My beloved Corgis are now all gone, and without games of fetch to distract me, I fear I must speak my mind in the matter of your son’s name.
I am fervently hoping for a solid, British Royal name, the likes of Edward, Arthur, Charles, Frederick, or Geoffrey.
I would even accept a Leopold.
But, dear children, you have tossed convention to the wind and turned away from Royal protocol on many an occasion, which is why I am concerned, and also why we must now replace palace carpeting.
Mind you, I have warmly welcomed an American into the Royal family, however, I shan’t be so welcoming should you be inclined to bestow upon your son any American name from the following list:
and last but certainly not least…
I beseech you both to choose wisely, for although I love you both, your son does not require street cred, and if I see on his birth certificate any name from the above list, well, suffice it to say that this is England.
We still have dungeons.
Your loving Grandmum,
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