A second #RoyalBaby will soon be joining the Windsors in England. Given the choice, would you rather be heir to the throne, or the (probably) off-the-hook sibling?
I know I am a modest person, and I like to move discretely in the world of WordPress. Who am I to show off, but in this case the truth must be told. When I arrived at my parents’ house, there was a soft knock at the door and my mum and dad approached to see the tip of a stork wing just leaving. They found a small basket in front of the door containing a baby. I had arrived. Unfortunately the stork made a mistake and dropped me at the wrong door. If she had flown for another thirty minutes, as the storks fly, I would have arrived at my true destination. Buckingham Palace which was not too far away. They were probably misguided by the bomb damage in London as it was 1946, just after the war and must have lost the way.
So there I was, complete with crown and name tab, ready to go. The first thing that happened was that my crown was removed and sold. At least there was enough money to buy the diapers and the milk. As I grew older I realised that something was wrong somewhere. Instead of having a maid to wait on me, I had a mum that did almost everything. I was not eating from bone china, but just crockery bought at the local Woolworths store. There was no private tutor and I had to go to a place called school which I had to share with many other girls of my age – how common. My royally equipped brain told me that something was wrong somewhere. I felt uncomfortable in bought store clothes, mostly made of cotton. I was sure that this was not for me. Pure silk and satin would have been more my thing.
They called me Pat, which I thought was strange. If I had been called Patricia I would have understood it, but of course I was expecting Your Highness or Princess Patricia. Something was wrong somewhere. I tried calling my parents mother and father, but they took no notice, so to oblige I said mum and dad as the other commoners called their parents. .
The most difficult part of my early life was having to obey orders. I was there to give orders. I was even expected to clean my room; this was definitely not the intended purpose of my life. Luckily my mother/mum made my bed. I think I would have been insulted if she had not made it. A princess, ongoing queen, does not make her own bed.
I remember when my adopted parents (they could not have been my real parents, they did not wear a crown or drive a Rolls Royce) showed me Buckingham Palace. When I saw it for the first time I felt in my regal body that this should have been my destination, this was where I belonged. I approached the guard at the entrance and entered. I felt a hand on my shoulder and the guard looked at me beneath his bearskin hat.
“Where do you think you are going?”
“To see my family of course.” I was surprised that he did not bow to me.
“I think your family are outside the gates little girl. Your mother and father are waiting for you.”
and he turned me in the other direction. I stamped my feet and refused to go. My mother/mum seemed to be quite embarrassed and mumbled an apology to the guard, telling him that I always had a fascination for royalty. I was still stamping my feet and screaming “I want to see the queen”. I was convinced that this was my real family. At this moment I was scooped into my mum’s arms (how degrading) and we moved to one side. A large carriage pulled by two horses left the palace and I saw all the crowds were cheering and waving. I waved as well. I am sure the Queen saw me, but she did her normal hand wave and moved on. She did not recognise me.
Was I disappointed? Actually not so much. I saw her imposter children and decided that they were not so pretty as I was. They were dressed in silly clothes. No, that was not my sort of thing. I then realised that I should be satisfied with what I have, even if my foster parents did sell my crown and never bought me the corgi dog I always wanted. We did have a cat at home, but that was because of the odd mouse that wanted to live with us. Mum did not like mice.
So there we have it. I grew up in a common family, had to fight my way through life. I even had to work to earn money. I went to Switzerland and met Mr. Swiss thinking that all Swiss have gold bars under the bed and I eventually my status in life would be recognised. Unfortunately, even in Switzerland there are exceptions to the rule.
I never told my children of their real inheritance, I did not want to disappoint them. Being an off-the-hook sibling (what is that) has its rewards. Today I visited my Tai Chi class and when I arrived home I found Mr. Swiss had tidied the garden. Of course a gardener would have been better, but in Switzerland they do not have Kings and Queens, just so-called Bundesrat. One thing is sure, I am probably the only person with royal blood in my veins that writes a daily blog. Who wants to be a Queen?
Chronicles of an Anglo Swiss 
Your Highness, I am sorry for the oversight. As one of your American former colonists, I think I might have a spare crown around here somewhere. I’ll send it — with your tee shirt — as soon as I can find it. Maybe the attic?
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Former colonists? You mean we gave you independence?
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The queen doesn’t blog? Are you certain? I haven’t checked, but would have thought there was a designated royal biographer/blogger chronicling the daily events.
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I don’t think she calls it blog. More a sort of official royal notice. I am sure she doesn’t do a daily prompt, but I might ask WordPress on the forum site or perhaps one of the WordPress nobility.
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Would you enjoy gardening there? Would Mr.Swiss come along with Tabby, oh yes flaunting your word press t shirt and what about wordy? Hope he gets a corner too to adjust in the palace.
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Problem being that the Queen does not have a garden/yard, she has a forest and park at the back of the palace. Somewhere there is probably room for a sun bed where I can wear the WordPress t-shirt (which I have not yet received). Wordy can move in with Tabby.
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So very clever, I love reading your blog!
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Thanks, glad to see you here.
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You do crack me up! Loved this!
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Always look on the sunny side of life. Perhaps they might find that I am related to the Windsors somewhere along the line.
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Great picture, your Highness. You really look royal. A pitty you lost your crown so early. You should become the heir. What would you do?
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I suppose I was a few months old in that photo. I have my own Kingdom where I live. The Prince Regent is OK, at the moment he is hoovering the living room. What more could I wish for.
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You’re amazing
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I am amused by the idea that royal babies are born with an inherent knowledge of how to behaviour and what to expect from lesser mortals 🙂 Fun story, and I definitely think our little princess got the better deal 😉
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I meant behave, not behaviour. My only excuse is that I just got up and my brain isn’t functioning yet!
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I am not sure about that. Queen Victoria was never amused and what her son got up to we never really found out, but I think his wife was not so happy.
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Hi Queen in Waiting Pat, Just had this as an answer in a daily quiz so thought I would post it on , as I know how much you like them 🙂 “Slug” is a name applied to any gastropod invertebrate animal. This includes snails. Regarding snails, they breathe through their feet, live up to fifteen years, and can sleep for up to three years . Some also have venom that is extremely poisonous. Get ready with your blue granules , some of them might be waking up!
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The Germans have only the word “Schnecke” which refers to the creatures with or without houses. I use the word slug as the naked variety, the slimy ones that sleek and eat certain plants. At the moment there is an invasion of Spanish slugs apparently, They are bigger, fatter and eat more. They are also immune to slug pellets I heard. Anyhow it is now Autumn and the slugs are probably searching for their three year hideaway for the cold periods. They will be back, hungry and ready for action. I am also ready for action. I will have a slug free garden as my choise of plants will be those that slugs do not like, perhaps laced with arsenic. thanks for the info, will have a look. Up to now no cases of death by snail in our village.
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Love it. You always give such quick and amusing replies. I was told that the slugs/snails/snecke hide under ivy as it is always damp underneath. I was advised to put a saucer of beer under the ivy , apparently they drink it, get drunk, fall in and drown. My husband said he wasn’t wasting beer so the slugs could die happy. Spanish slugs, they’ve come a long way, I wonder when they started out.
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The beer trick works, but we never have beer at home. I will now go on a search beneath my wonderful two coloured ivy with a pin.
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Princess Patricia, you should be crowned Queen of the Daily Prompt because your contribution was by far, the best.
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We all have our own style. Just a WordPress t-shirt in XXL size will do, although I think I now want it with the letters in gold.
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great take on the daily prompt! made me giggle
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