Has anyone else noticed the uncanny similarities between my lifestyle and that of Crown Princess Mary of Denmark? You will, after seeing the irrefutable evidence I’m about to present.
We’re both living in foreign lands with a staff (sure, mine consists of one underpaid domestic helper, while she has a battalion ranging from under-butler to gardener). We both live in castles (as long as the adage about ‘a man’s home is his castle’ is literal, which it was obviously intended to be). She’s mastered Danish, a complex and guttural Germanic tongue; and I know how to command a taxi in Cantonese, with the help of lots of pointing.
So far, so convincing. But in case more proof is needed, how about this.
Our wedding kisses were eerily similar. (As was the attire of our guests. At Mary and Frederik’s wedding, Queen Margrethe wore a voluminous pink floral ballgown; one of the relatives at our wedding wore a windcheater, but it was okay because "He works for the council"??).
It was about this time I began to feel that one of us was trying too hard to emulate the other, so I deviated from the path by never regaining my figure or polish – and she fell for it! Look at her, the idiotic lithe fool! SUCKED IN, MARY!
And then came the news from Copenhagen that Mary’s expecting twins. In one fell swoop, she’s determined my destiny. We always thought we’d have four kids. But not twins, no way. I’d need a couple more domestic helpers, and a tailor, for a start. My wardrobe can only just barely accommodate the devastation wreaked upon my figure by two babies.
So, Mary, it’s been a privilege, but you’re on your own. You keep going – I’m staying here. Sure, bad shorts and thongs abound, but you’ll always have more stretchmarks than me. In my dreams.