Meghan Markle and Prince Harry are just daring to try to live happily ever after. Bravo! – Susan Morrison
Being royal does not look like a lot of fun.
Even in fairy tales, being a princess looked like a high-risk occupation, constantly battling off evil stepmothers, scheming sorcerers and cackling witches, not to mention being locked up in towers, getting grief from dragons and becoming the enforced housekeeper for seven short messy little miners who presumably claimed they couldn’t do the dishes because they couldn’t reach the sink.
Even in real life, I’ll bet having a title isn’t all it's cracked up to be. How do you buy things on Amazon? The drop down menu on the address page says Mr/Ms/Mrs/Dr but does it include Princess/Your Highness/Her Grace? Nope.
Imagine eagerly awaiting a nice new pair of fluffy slippers, only to find Hermes dumped your order somewhere in Buckingham because the driver is looking for someone called Grace Windsor.
The living accommodation wouldn’t rate well on Tripadvisor. I watched The Crown. Those chilly looking palaces look like seriously cold comfort in the heating department. There’s a reason why the Queen and her late mother were such fans of the twinset cardy combo. Who gets cosy when the nearest source of heat is far enough away to need satnav?
The service would be good, I suppose, although I’m not sure I'd like some nice lady appearing at my bedside with tea first thing in the morning to wake me up. For one thing, it's coffee, and for another, if that nice lady expected polite conversation from the beast beneath the duvet, she’s going to be seriously disappointed. The kind Yorkshireman who looks after me knows to approach with caution. Leave the coffee and go before the Kraken fully awakes.
Then there’s the gawking London press, constantly rattling closets to hear the skeletons clattering in the dark. Imagine how they crowed when they got their hands on a handwritten letter to a deadbeat dad from a newly royal daughter.
These palace ‘correspondents’ shape-shift like Snow White’s stepmother, a beauty who could switch to witch in a heartbeat. The rakers of royal muck turned on a dime from fawning courtiers lavishing praise on a new bride and fresh-minted princess into cawing corbies spitting feathers because the duchess didn’t play ball and decided she wouldn’t play the media game by their rules.
They called up their familiar malignant spells of rumour, insinuation and “sources at the palace say”.
They did it to another princess, remember.
So, like a fairytale, the handsome prince in this story, who happens to be the son of that other princess driven to distraction by the prying press, decided he didn’t want a supporting role in “Diana 2 : The Sequel.”
He grabbed the woman he loved, channelled his inner Gerard Butler and made a dash for freedom. With the little Prince, I should add.
And bravo, Harry. No-one asked him to be a royal. He’s got the right to say “no thanks”. He and Megan can struggle along in LA with only his fortune, their names and her contacts to get by on.
Will they live happily ever after? No idea. But I always applaud a bit of contrary thinking, so hats off to Harry and Megan for daring to try.