Dear Diary: I awoke this morning with an overwhelming feeling of relief. At last night's state banquet for French President Francois Hollande, we had to seat him between Michelle and myself. I made numerous attempts to engage him in conversation but he grew more withdrawn with each attempt. "How is your lady friend Valerie Rotweiler? I asked"Trierweiler," he said.
"Rotweiler... Trierweiler...whatever. Michelle and I regret that she couldn't join you."
Since the French are so famously open-minded on matters of the boudoir, I ventured: Why didn't you bring your mistress instead?
"That is... how you say? None of your goddam business," replied the ill-tempered Frog.
I could feel an anxiety attack coming on, so
I signaled Valerie Jarrett by catching her eye and tugging my ear. She immediately went to Dr Rink's table and arranged for a men's room rendezvous for Rink and I. I slipped away quietly. Rink was waiting and quickly reassured me, as only he can. "Your majesty, take this," he said and gave me a sedative to dissolve under my tongue. Crisis over. Hollande returns to France today. Yippeee! I have to ask him one last favor: To use his influence to suppress the French media hysteria about my supposedly banging Beyonce. But enough about me.
