Stuff
The Little Lady and the Royal Wedding
By Hester Browne - April 29, 2011
More Posts by Hester Browne
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February 11, 2011
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February 3, 2011
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January 17, 2011
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November 8, 2010
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December 28, 2009
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December 22, 2009
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October 9, 2009
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September 28, 2009
I’m very bad at (a) updating my Author Voices blog and (b) self-publicity of any kind – come on, I’m English – but it seems like as good a time as any to remind you all that I wrote a book about someone nearly marrying a prince some years ago, way back in the dusty days when it seemed as if Prince William couldn’t put off proposing much longer. 2008, I believe. I would urge all you Royal-watchers to investigate The Little Lady Agency and the Prince, as it contains much sound prince-wrangling advice, albeit of minor European princelings. You might also think about looking up The Finishing Touches, containing, as it does, many useful Modern Sloane ideas that Kate Middleton seems to have taken on board, viz, fashion maths (“how much cheaper is this dress if you subtract the shoes I’m not going to buy as well?”) and the Importance of a Good Blow Dry.
Like everyone else in the country - yes, even you, miserable Guardian newspaper hacks, don't deny it - I'm actually rather excited about the wedding, even though I now know more than I ever wanted to know about the Middletons and/or St Andrews university and/or how to make my own bunting. My dogs will be wearing their special occasion collars for the day (see Twitter) and I will be eating cucumber sandwiches at the village's street party. The dress code is: Your Wedding Outfit, which I hope isn't some kind of sneaky social filtering tactic to weed out the spinsters of the parish, unless, of course, they intend to pair us up with hunky local landowners and cider heirs.
One of the reasons I have a sneaking fondness for Prince William – apart from the belief commonly shared with every woman under thirty-eight in Great Britain that I could have married him myself, had I only been five years younger and at St Andrews, not Cambridge, and also much richer, and a keen polo player - is that he’s exactly the sort of man who might have shared a flat with Melissa Romney-Jones. He’d be good at cooking, because his mother would have taught him the three chalet-girl recipes she’d learned herself, and he’d be respectful about Mel’s bathroom cabinet space. He even dresses like one of her Little Lady Agency clients, in his jeans and pink shirts and Oakley shades, and never quite enough sunblock. In fact, he’d probably have engaged Mel to help him tactfully let down other would-be Kates without hurting their feelings too much, and she would probably have refused to invoice him because he was ‘so sweet about picking up her shopping from Peter Jones’.
Nelson, it goes without saying, would have thought he was a total creep, and would only grudgingly have accepted the tickets to Cowes Week.
And Mel’s dad, Martin, would probably be scarlet with rage that Mel had somehow failed to get herself engaged to the future King, despite pairing up his socks for years, but would at the same time, be muttered darkly about how ‘Camilla hung in there long enough.’
Like soap stars and newsreaders, a lifetime’s exposure to the royals does make you think you ‘know’ them, in some weird way. I’ve ‘been’ to all William’s family weddings, after all, through the magic of telly, and also listened in on the mortifying details of his parents’ divorce, through the dubious magic of tabloid newspapers and Martin Bashir. I even went to his mother’s funeral, like nearly everyone else in the country, and stood in the Mall while that electrifying procession clip-clopped past. But what sealed the ‘oh, I know William’ factor for me was the fact that they hung around in my part of town.
It used to be relatively easy to spot Kate Middleton and Prince William, mainly in mine and Melissa R-J’s stomping ground of the Kings Road in Chelsea and around Mayfair, where Clarence House is tucked away surprisingly close to the main road of Piccadilly. One friend bumped into Kate behind Peter Jones last year; his eyes still go unfocussed when he tries to describe how a very thin brunette in skinny jeans and boots (ie, every woman on the Kings Road who isn’t a very thin blonde in skinny jeans and boots) has a ‘sort of … glow…’ Presumably that won’t be the case any more, but if you’re in London, keep your eyes peeled around Sloane Square during the day. The four big protection officers will be the giveaway.
(Failing that, you could try getting yourself rescued by the helicopter crews around Anglesey in North Wales, but that’s quite a high risk strategy, and no one would believe you anyway if you claimed to have been winched out of your capsized dinghy by Prince William. I wouldn’t believe you, and I write romantic novels.)
There is still one prince available, but you’ll have to be pretty quick and quite brave to bag him. You will need earplugs and a very, very robust sense of humour. You’ll need to understand the rules of rugby and football, be able to hold your drink, know when to drag him out of the nightclub, like a man in uniform, and ideally be totally oblivious to his worst jokes.
Melissa Romney-Jones, your country needs you.
Like everyone else in the country - yes, even you, miserable Guardian newspaper hacks, don't deny it - I'm actually rather excited about the wedding, even though I now know more than I ever wanted to know about the Middletons and/or St Andrews university and/or how to make my own bunting. My dogs will be wearing their special occasion collars for the day (see Twitter) and I will be eating cucumber sandwiches at the village's street party. The dress code is: Your Wedding Outfit, which I hope isn't some kind of sneaky social filtering tactic to weed out the spinsters of the parish, unless, of course, they intend to pair us up with hunky local landowners and cider heirs.
One of the reasons I have a sneaking fondness for Prince William – apart from the belief commonly shared with every woman under thirty-eight in Great Britain that I could have married him myself, had I only been five years younger and at St Andrews, not Cambridge, and also much richer, and a keen polo player - is that he’s exactly the sort of man who might have shared a flat with Melissa Romney-Jones. He’d be good at cooking, because his mother would have taught him the three chalet-girl recipes she’d learned herself, and he’d be respectful about Mel’s bathroom cabinet space. He even dresses like one of her Little Lady Agency clients, in his jeans and pink shirts and Oakley shades, and never quite enough sunblock. In fact, he’d probably have engaged Mel to help him tactfully let down other would-be Kates without hurting their feelings too much, and she would probably have refused to invoice him because he was ‘so sweet about picking up her shopping from Peter Jones’.
Nelson, it goes without saying, would have thought he was a total creep, and would only grudgingly have accepted the tickets to Cowes Week.
And Mel’s dad, Martin, would probably be scarlet with rage that Mel had somehow failed to get herself engaged to the future King, despite pairing up his socks for years, but would at the same time, be muttered darkly about how ‘Camilla hung in there long enough.’
Like soap stars and newsreaders, a lifetime’s exposure to the royals does make you think you ‘know’ them, in some weird way. I’ve ‘been’ to all William’s family weddings, after all, through the magic of telly, and also listened in on the mortifying details of his parents’ divorce, through the dubious magic of tabloid newspapers and Martin Bashir. I even went to his mother’s funeral, like nearly everyone else in the country, and stood in the Mall while that electrifying procession clip-clopped past. But what sealed the ‘oh, I know William’ factor for me was the fact that they hung around in my part of town.
It used to be relatively easy to spot Kate Middleton and Prince William, mainly in mine and Melissa R-J’s stomping ground of the Kings Road in Chelsea and around Mayfair, where Clarence House is tucked away surprisingly close to the main road of Piccadilly. One friend bumped into Kate behind Peter Jones last year; his eyes still go unfocussed when he tries to describe how a very thin brunette in skinny jeans and boots (ie, every woman on the Kings Road who isn’t a very thin blonde in skinny jeans and boots) has a ‘sort of … glow…’ Presumably that won’t be the case any more, but if you’re in London, keep your eyes peeled around Sloane Square during the day. The four big protection officers will be the giveaway.
(Failing that, you could try getting yourself rescued by the helicopter crews around Anglesey in North Wales, but that’s quite a high risk strategy, and no one would believe you anyway if you claimed to have been winched out of your capsized dinghy by Prince William. I wouldn’t believe you, and I write romantic novels.)
There is still one prince available, but you’ll have to be pretty quick and quite brave to bag him. You will need earplugs and a very, very robust sense of humour. You’ll need to understand the rules of rugby and football, be able to hold your drink, know when to drag him out of the nightclub, like a man in uniform, and ideally be totally oblivious to his worst jokes.
Melissa Romney-Jones, your country needs you.
