Don’t Mess with a Teenage Princess
Okay so here’s the deal. One, you’re a princess, right? A fully fledged bit of royal DNA. No ifs, no buts, no daddy being naughty with the commoners. Two, you’re the number one child, born 9 months and 13 days after the royal marriage. Lucky I was overdue, ha! Wouldn’t want to embarrass the parentals by being living proof daddy dear couldn’t keep it sheathed.
By now you’re getting the idea that my princessness doesn’t run to my brain. They’ve controlled everything else in my oh so wonderful, sprinkles and unicorns life but not how I think. Or write.
And that’s a bit of a bummer, you know? Like I have this Ladies Maid who’s actually a duplicitous piece of sly cow meat, aka a spy. Who found my diary. Who told my mother. Right. I mean, why not issue a sodding proclamation: Her Royal Painness has written about her shitty life and those who’ve framed it are appalled. ‘It’s your duty, blah blah blah’ Like whatever happened to choice and some human rights, people? Oh I forgot. This is an Absolutist Monarchy, dressed up as a fairy tale with satin bog rolls and triple toad kissing after double maths. No democracy, no personal growth. Just a train track to the stupid farm and years of embroidery before I dribble into the sofa and became a Dowager Fart bucket. Like great aunt Queen Sofia the umpteenth or whatever. Anyhoo, mumsie-kindness is trying to repair years of hog roasts and Wassalling with a trowel when I’m granted an audience. I was assuming something along the lines of: ‘Sweetie pie, daddins wants lil miss purrfect to be a good lil prinny-winny.’ But while she may be a raddled old hasbeen, she ain’t stoopid. She reads me like a celebrity expose. She knows ‘that look’. Hell where’d she think I got it? Tescos? Quick as the viper she really is, she grabs my chin, her eyes giving away how jel she is of its firmness, and says, ‘Bout time you read this, seeing as you like words soooo much.’
That’s how I came to be here, on this cliff watching the tide go out. See, this here book is my death sentence. It’s called ‘The Princess Code’ and that sounds cosy. Sort of secret. But the knifes are out in the first chapter. Headed ‘Primogeniture sucks’ it goes straight to the jugular. ‘You may think, as first born, you get the throne, but, girl, you’ve a snotty younger brother, haven’t you?’ Alvin. Perfect description. ‘He gets it all. Boys always do. No crown, just one of those cracker gift tiaras thingies.’ And if that’s not bad enough – at least I have the option of killing him and restoring my rightful place in the hierachy – it’s chapter two that’s the absolute trap door to doomsville. This one starts: ‘When your mum begins filling a box with sheets, worry.’ It seems this is a trousseau and is stage one in getting together a load of stuff called a dowry. Now that’s just a big heap of goodies, okay. I’m not big on bedding but gold cups and silver spoons I can take all day long. I’m not beyond a little pawning. But this lot ain’t for me, it’s for some random bloke who the parentals get to choose and who I’m supposed to marry. Yeah, right. Like I’m buying that shite. But now I think about it, mumsie has been having some seriously weird lunches with these other Queens, who normally she wouldn’t sell her nail clippings to. And they all have boys. Spotty. Stinky. Stupid. That’s when this, like, the light bulb goes off. Doh! She’s marrying me off to some depressive dork with a dick.
Not on my watch she’s not. When the Ferry to the Far Horizons comes, I’m so out of here I’m like in a parallel universe. Trouble is I think the Royal Wizard, Barry the Brains, has fixed the tides cos they’ve been going out for five days solid. It is such a bummer being royal. Who knew?
This is in response to Sue Vincent’s latest #writephoto prompt.