William and Kate.
They’re everywhere, creeping insidiously through every chink in my armour, insinuating their unwelcome presence into my already jittery consciousness, slipping slimily out of the mouths of untold numbers of royal correspondents and daft members of the public who seem to believe they have some personal stake in the matter. I caught sight of prize toady Nicholas Witchell tonight, looking very dapper (and I mean ‘dapper’) in a flowery tie and sporting a presumably expensive but vaguely absurd haircut. I turned the TV off with unaccustomed haste, shivering the sort of shiver that typically comes when you spot a whole tribe of maggots swimming in your cock-a-leekie soup.
I’m hoping the media might crawl back under the paving slabs once the Beautiful Couple have decamped to some place that only the very rich and privileged can go for their honeymoons. I’ll bet they don’t.
Here’s the funny bit, though. In an earlier post I called them Harry and Kate. I only just noticed tonight. Maybe it was prophetic. One five second clip I couldn’t avoid while I was trying to find the TV remote showed the bride and her prospective brother-in-law sharing a limo on the way back from wedding practice. What a hoot that would be. We all know which of Will and Harry’s dads their dear mama preferred, don’t we?
Thank heavens the Tower of London is only a visitor attraction these days. There was a time when I would have been privileged to make its intimate acquaintance.
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