LINKS:
Fairytales and... free Will.
With just a few hours away from the much-salivated-over Royal nuptials – some 2 million of the empire’s loyal subjects, await…
...and camp out on cold English cobblestone wrapped in polyester sleeping bags. Union Jacks aflutter. Hearts too… all risking sudden downpours and stampedes from uber-coiffed American journalists. Why?
Well, for a chance to glimpse a fairytale, of course.
Makes me wanna drown in a vat of Earl Grey. And no, that’s not a sour grape you sniff. I wish the lovers a universe of joy, truly.
Honestly, I don’t find the monstrous attention the wedding is attracting unnerving at all. It’s all predictably hysterical...
...from the endless pap shots of princes in range rovers and megawatt dental work to the mindblowing discovery of Kate’s Disney stickers still clinging to a wall in the family’s old apartment in Amman, Jordan.
Nope. I’m not even slightly agog at all this breathless coverage. In fact, I’m almost collecting the stories I see and hear.
* Clarence House banning all satirical TV coverage of the union. (Catchya later democracy – and a Logie for the Chasers, not)
* Bluebloods would whisper "Doors to manual" whenever Kate walked into a room (a reference to her mother’s air hostess career). Miaow.
* And my current favourite… the British chap who’s bottling the air outside Westminster Abbey. Price on application. Inspired.
No. All this detail is picture-book perfect, words that are an ideal segue into what’s really, truly disturbing me about this whole affair.
It’s the f-word.
The term that’s been thrown about er, Willy nilly since the royal question was first popped. It’s the expression that’s got journalists in a froth, presenters praying to their autocues.
It’s…
Fairytale.
A lovely, magical, innocent term that conjures up castles and maidens, white steeds and the handsome men who ride them…
…not creaking, century-old protocol, and abbeys haunted by the ghosts of forced love and tragic endings.
Last time I checked, a fairytale ended with birdsong and credits featuring the word, Disney. So, I’m confused.
Why, why does this coupling have to be the fairytale? Are we so convinced that only untold wealth and regal pairings conjure up life’s magic?
Why are we so obsessed with this supposed perfection? So that Di can finally rest in peace? Really?
Why, why are we so desperate for the happily ever after from these two mortals (and they are – in spite of the bloodline and relentless suck on the public purse – mere mortals who poo like you and I).
Why, why must this marriage conform to storybook convention? Just watch Pretty Woman a few hundred times and save yourself the angst.
But no… TV journalists cross their fingers, screw up their eyes, look down the barrel of the camera and say words so desperate, cloying,
‘Please let this one work!’
Or what? Will the Queen explode, flinging one’s chintz-covered, wrinkled remains all over the land?
Give them a break. Windsor and Middleton should be free to love. Free to fight. Free to … flee.
Which leads me to a final tale from my storybook collection…
Apparently, W and K have always known they’d marry but that divorce wouldn’t be a possibility which is why William waited so long to propose; he needed to be sure they’d be happy – for ever and after.
Hm. Sounds like Wills may have bought into the fairytale. Which is gorgeous.
Maybe he doesn’t mind that the empire’s hopes and fears rest on he and his Bride’s etiquette-straightened shoulders. Maybe he believes he is free to love and quarrel and procreate as one wishes.
Hm.
Or maybe, behind palace doors, free will and fairytales may not really, truly mix.
© Phyllis Foundis – April 2011
