Royal Correspondents are normal people. I put on my garters, my suspenders and press my velvet cravat each morning just like the next man. For years, I feel as if I have been pigeon-holed a one type of person.
I am not posh. I am not a toff. I am no better than any of you. Maybe the people need to go back to their council estates and claim their free benefits and live their life the decent people they so clearly are.
I’m sorry… I’ve had a bad week.
Before this week I hadn’t yet had the wonderful opportunity to speak to the beautiful Duchess of Cambridge – the beautiful Kate! Such poise and elegance – I have been bursting to meet her!
Unfortunately, not yet having infiltrated the inner circle of elite Royal correspondents – the rest of us call them, ‘trust fund babies’… we are too, of course, but theirs are bigger. Bigger, as my wife sadly keeps reminding me, apparently really does mean better. My opportunities for a meeting have been few and far between.
My chance came this week, as the Duchess attended a Christening for a dear friend’s child, with her son Prince George in a little church in Wiltshire.
As she walked the pathway to the church, she was inundated by members of the public. Not the British Public – they rarely have time for all these petty events, but Americans, Japanese, French – all those who surely dream of having a monarch.
As a friend held baby George, she stepped quietly away from the furore – now mostly focused on the child – and stepped right next to me!
I could barely contain my excitement! We shared a glance and a moment of awkward silence, before I eventually got up the courage to say, ‘Young George seems to be handling things rather well!’ followed by a kind smile.
She turned around and frowned at me. I didn’t understand. She quickly strode over to a push chair outside of the waiting tourists being looked after by two men in black suits. She picked up the bawling baby and started to comfort it.
The baby playing in the middle wasn’t George. I had got the wrong baby.
Was I embarrassed? Mightily. I console myself with the fact that all babies look the same, so this one really isn’t my fault.
Actually, I take that back. The last thing I want to be seen as is a baby racist.
I slunk off quietly to my car. I had half a bottle of Brandy in there. Which…. I of course didn’t drink until I was safely in my bath.
It’s been a tough week.
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