A Page from the Royal Baby's Diary
I’ve been sitting in my mother’s uterus for a few months now and, to be honest, I’m not entirely certain that I want to come out. It’s not that I don’t want to meet my parents. I simply adore my mum, even though her collection of comical hats invites a bit of criticism from pretentious passerbyers. (You wouldn’t believe the acoustics in this belly. I can hear a whole lot of chatter without exerting any energy at all. It’s remarkable, really.) It’s just that, because of my father’s royal blood, I’ve been cursed with a set of royal baby responsibilities that I’ll have to deal with when I leave the womb.
Take my birth, for example. When I finally exit this amniotic pool, a royal aide will immediately be sent to Buckingham Palace with a letter announcing my arrival. Two minutes into my existence on this planet and the world already wants to know my name and see my slimy, writhing figure. And what if they don’t approve of my name? If I don’t end up with some dreadfully boring title like James or Elizabeth (I haven’t bothered to check what gender I am so I’ve been experimenting with both male and female names), I’ll have to accept something like Horatio or Agatha. Agatha. I don’t mean any offense to those with those names. I just don’t fancy them for myself.
And what if I’m not cute? I’ve been in a dark sac for 9-months with no reflective surfaces, so how should I know? What if I pop out resembling an ogre? What happens then? A petty point, perhaps, but if the entire human population must endure images of me on the tele for the rest of their lives, my appearance could very well be a factor in determining the happiness of an entire country. That’s a lot of pressure for a fetus to be under, you know.
This is all assuming that I enjoy my family’s company, too. After hearing some of the stories about my lineage, this is not entirely guaranteed. My grandfather, for example, insists on bringing a white leather toilet seat wherever he goes, which seems a bit over-the-top for a simple trip to the loo.
You can try to tell me no one cares but I know about those Royal Baby watchers. They make a hefty living out of following my development. At times, I wonder if I’m not living up to my posh destiny, that perhaps I should be demanding more gifts. Golden binkies, for example, would be delightful, along with diapers with my face on it and tea biscuits named after me. Baby Cambridge Biscuits. It has a nice ring, I think.
In all honesty, though, I hope I am able to lead a regular life. I want to be able to play football without having to look over my shoulder for journalists, or go to the carnival with friends without seeing it in the papers the next morning. Blimey, is that too demanding of a request?
Oh, bother, I think it’s time for me to go. Mum is screaming and I think I see a light around the corner. Thank god for that, writing in the dark is hard work.
The Royal Baby
Image via Daily Mail