Arise, Princess The Missus

We fully intended to watch the Royal Wedding, of course.  We're not anarchists or anything.  But we weren't that enthusiastic about it.  We had plans to watch it with some local friends but at half past ten, as a hungover missus stumbled downstairs wrapped in a duvet and turned on the TV, the chances of that happening looked slim.

15 minutes later she was standing in the kitchen fully dressed with barely brushed wet hair, looking wild-eyed.  "Is the living room on fire?" I asked nervously.  "How long are you going to be?" she demanded, ripping her coat off the hook.  "The Queen's just arrived!"  I told her I had to fill the dishwasher and find my keys.  "YOU'RE DEAD WEIGHT!" she shrieked, fleeing from the room.  I heard small feet pounding down the stairs, the front door slamming and the yowl of a cat being booted out of the way.

My eventual stroll down the road coincided with the big dress reveal.  I know this because I heard a huge lady-pitched "WHOOOOOYEEEEEAAAARRGGGHHHH!!!!!!" from several consecutive ground floor flats.  I arrived at our friends Chris and Vicki's house to find flag-waving excitement on the sofa and sausages going into the oven.

We watched it all.  The grumpy nuns and rabbis and Queen (at least until, like all old ladies, she cheered up on the way home).  The weirdly old, unshaven choirboy (no, not Ken Clarke).  Pippa Middleton's arse in the glorious 30 seconds before it was a cliché.  Endless interviews with idiots (my personal favourite - Kate's old headteacher being asked about her strengths and proudly remembering that she was "extremely proficient at a number of games").   

All this talk of the royal elevation of commoners natually led to consideration of the missus's chances of becoming a princess.  She needs to move quickly before we get married, otherwise the nation will have another Wallis Simpson on its hands.  Prince Harry should watch his back - she'd happily headbut Chelsea Davy into a coma for the chance to slip him a rohypnol and drag him by his spurs all the way to Gretna Green.

I questioned whether she'd actually like being a princess.  All those early starts to open cardiology units in Wales.  All those dull dinners making small talk with the Ukrainian ambassador.  Every terrible gaff making the front pages.  "Rubbish", she said.  "I'd love it.  I'd have my photo taken every day, and I'd get to go horse riding all the time.  I see photos of the royals with horses all the time, and I never see photos of them opening boring hospitals."  "But you see those photos in Horse and Hound.  I'm not sure that's truly representative" I replied.  "Oh, shut up", she said.  "I hear Harry's going to Boujis tomorrow night.  I need to get my roots done in the morning."