Could you imagine buying your weekly groceries, hunting around in your purse/wallet to pay for your tins of baked beans and packets of frozen peas (or whatever you’d purchased), and staring right back at you, on your crumpled £20 note, was a picture of your nan?
Would you find this a teeny bit weird?
Or maybe it would be even weirder if you couldn’t purchase your groceries at your leisure, for fear of press intrusion. Huge camera lenses flashing before you as you reached that shelf to remove the washing powder.
Or even worse, if you walked along the streets without the security of a body guard, you were risking life and limb with the threat of kidnappers.
Is this the way you’d like to conduct your life?
It’s not the life for me.
I’d rather have anonymity and freedom, than history and privileges.
I’m trying to imagine being part of the Royal Family. In particular, putting myself in the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge’s (expensive, shiny) shoes.
It’s not something I often think about, I am not an obsessive Royalist. However, recently I have been pondering about such situations, due to the birth of their child, Prince George, who happens to be third in line to the throne.
As soon as it was announced the Duchess of Cambridge had arrived at St Mary’s hospital, to give birth to our future King or Queen, the UK press and newsrooms were in a frenzy for snippets of information.
For hours reporters stood outside the hospital, commenting and speculating, and waiting for the first picture of the little Prince or Princess.
I couldn’t help feeling a tad sorry for the new mum. Labour must be exhausting enough, without knowing most of the country is waiting for you to leave hospital and wondering what dress you’ll be wearing/if you’ll have a flat tummy/what your son or daughter will look like.
For the record, it was a blue and white polka dot dress, she still had a tummy (she may be a member of the Royal family but she’s not super human), and he looked like, erm, a baby.
But she looked lovely, happy, beaming, and calm. Posing for photographs and waving at the crowds.
I’m not sure if I will be looking half as decent as her after enduring hours of labour. In fact, I’m pretty sure I won’t.
I imagine I’ll have a make-up free, pale and exhausted face. My lank and sweaty hair tied back, and wearing whatever outfit I can fit in/remembered to pack in my panicked frame of mind before leaving for the hospital.
But I wouldn’t wish for it to be any other way.
Sometimes, I’m glad I’m just common old me, living my easy, modest life.
Oh and welcome to this crazy world, little Prince George.