November 18, 2010
I think it might now be time to come to terms with the fact that I will never be the Queen of England.
In younger days, this possibility inspired me with romantic unease. Today it just fills me with republican rage.
Here in Anglophile, Loyalist Halifax, the newsstands are filled with tabloids reveling in the princely engagement and "Tales of the Royal Women." There is something strangely delightful, I have to say, about the fact that these gossip mags intersperse official portraits of Queen Elizabeth the First among youthful glamor shots of the current queen, her sister, the young princess-to-be, and Princess Di. Nothing says glamor like Queen Bess, all done up in a Juno gown (covered in peacock feathers to show that she always - ALWAYS - has her eye on you) and standing on a map of subjugated Europe.
Notice that I said "might now be time." I'm not discounting the possibility that, come the revolution, I could be elected (or chosen by virtue of my merits) to live in a palace and wave in a dignified fashion.