William was never really my guy.
I was always going to marry Prince Harry.
My best laid plans came horrendously unstuck in the form of a glamorous American actress with Amazonian legs and impossibly dewy skin.
In case you haven’t read any of the 167,978,666,001 recent articles on the topic, her name is Meghan Markle.
Suspending criticisms of “pink” conditioning and white privilege, I don’t think I’m the first woman to ever entertain dreams (delusions) of becoming a princess.
And despite the tabloid media’s almost neurotic idee fix to frame the impending royal wedding as a soap opera of epic Geordie-Shore style proportions,
I remain transfixed,
by the wonderment of royalty.
By the fairy-tale.
As Harry slips between my unmanicured beer-drinking fingers, I find myself looking closer to home for my own fairy-tale moments…
All those nights you watched TV from the floor so I could stretch out on couch (Dubbed my ‘throne’. Fitting).
All those times you ate pizza and saved me the crusts.
That time (ok, all those times) I was an unadulterated brat and you still looked at me like the sun rose and set with me.
That time I had a panic attack and you held my heaving, blubbering, distraught self and nursed me back to sanity.
It’s about being the author of your own Once-Upon-A-Time.
Sans stilted waves.
A princess who can still go to the corner store in track pants with a hangover, without fear of becoming click bait.
A happily ever after of the best kind.
One outside the gilded cage that is Kensington Palace.