Bridesmaid

Lucy’s column for February 10.
Princelo…1
As a child – and twice a bridesmaid - I always longed to be a bride, which is why I usually managed to snaffle the bit of net curtain from various dressing-up boxes in games of "let’s pretend….". In fact, my sole ambitions in life were housewifery, motherhood, with a short career behind a Post Office counter, stamping bits of paper with an inky rubber seal.
Marrying a prince never entered my head. Mind you, I was hardly princess material, being landed with the sort of chubby legs and dimpled elbows only a mother could love. No, my escort down the aisle was always a soldier called Joe. Being a bit of a saddo, he was my imaginary friend, and I can picture him now – short, faceless, jaunty cap, and not even a stripe to his name.
Looking back, princes were the stuff of fairytale Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty, because there weren’t many reality princes of the realm to dream about in those days – just a King and a few old dukes. I admit to fancying a bit of the lifestyle of the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret Rose, because they wore nice kilts and cardies, had curls, and got to ride ponies every day. Oddly enough, neither of those two went on to marry princes. Perhaps they knew something we didn’t.
Because as we are all too well aware in these enlightened times, it doesn’t always work – think Princess Diana and king-in-waiting Charles, not to mention Camilla, who still has to have her bolt-hole home, and is rather backwards at coming forwards when it comes to cutting ribbons and touring factories.
Which is why I silently cheered recently when it was announced that South African Chelsy Davy and Prince Harry had split, and if reports are to be believed, it was her decision. Thank heaven, I thought, for her logical legal brain which, to her credit, saw the writing on the wall. Who on earth would choose that life? And why I secretly groan when the woman dubbed Waity Katie continues to sit on the sidelines, awaiting the Royal proposal. For what?
Can’t she, and the Middleton family – and they do reckon her mother is the epitome of pushy – see beyond the posh frocks, jewels, servants, forelock-tugging, and, like the Queen Mother before her, never having to pull a pair of curtains ever again in her life? She hasn’t even approached the cathedral steps yet, but already she’s stalking stags, insisting on being called Catherine, and living the life of a recluse as Prince William decides to pop the question.
As one who won’t even nip to the local Co-op without a bit of lippy in case some critical neighbour cops me looking like a dog’s dinner, how can somebody so young and intelligent put herself forward for the scrutiny which will follow her for ever? She has only to look to the adored Diana to realise that life within that particularly gilded cage can be sad, humiliating, lacking support, and wide open to criticism from both that frosty Firm and a picky public.
No doubt bagging a prince is the ultimate in social climbing. But as Chelsy has sussed before it’s too late, along with never having to utter : "I haven’t a rag to my back….." ever again, beckons the constant grind of cutting ribbons, planting trees, touring factories, conjuring up face-aching smiles, producing heirs and spares, entertaining bores and being bored by so-called entertainers, and knowing your place – usually below the salt. Not even the lure of the Crown Jewels could make up for that lack of fun and freedom.
Chelsy has found the courage to vacate the Royal boudoir. Ms Middleton could be about to make her bed. Just trust the stuff girly dreams are made of isn’t too lumpy.
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