We are not amused.
Your tardiness is infringing on our royal summer holiday. Our bags are packed, and we are most anxious to depart for Balmoral. We fear we would appear cold and uncaring if we were to leave for Scotland before your birth–the press were scandalized enough by our joking (mostly) comment today that we did not mind whether you were a boy or a girl, just so long as you arrived soon.
Besides, it would be damned inconvenient to drive eight and a half hours up the M6 just to find out that you had finally appeared, and that we were expected to rush back to Paddington for the requisite oohing and ahhing. In actual fact, we would be most content to meet you privately when you travel with your parents to visit Balmoral later in the summer.
We are hot, we are sweaty, and we are getting cranky. We long for the cool, green hills of Scotland so that we might escape the hottest London summer in seven years. You are urged, most respectfully, to hurry the hell up.
I have the honour to be (someday),
Your loving great-grandmother,
HM Queen Elizabeth II
At the risk of upsetting Her Majesty, I am secretly hoping the baby holds out for eight more days…then I can say I share my birthday with the future British monarch!