Blogs are like Tequila. They should be taken with a pinch of salt.

Monday, July 7, 2014

Dear Prince Harry.

Dear Prince Harry (or, as you shall soon be known, hubby),

In just a couple of months, you’re turning thirty. It’s time, babe. You’ve had your fun messing around with girls like Chelsy and Cressida, but it’s time for you to find some princess-wife material. And it just so happens, I am of such quality princess-wife material, that I’m practically vicuña wool*.

For starters, dear Hubbykins, I’m up to date on my research. You’re an Apache pilot (I’m pretty sure Apache is a type of helicopter, or a French baked good), and given that you need a wife with an understanding of your passionate career, I have watched and re-watched a documentary on Apache pilots. Okay, it is an interview with you talking about being an Apache pilot. Okay, I watched some of it and then found a bit where you accidentally lifted your shirt and showed a bit of midriff then ran off to be a hero, so then I just focused on watching that bit over and over again. But still, I’m up to date on my research. Of your abs.

Fast forward to about thirty seconds, and thank me later. 
(If the video skips, it may because I wore a hole in it... )

Obviously, you have been looking at the wrong girls. If you want a good wife, you have to look at the obvious traits. Kate Middleton. Mary Donaldson. Jasmine. Belle. What do they have in common? Brown hair. I’m not being a hairist, I’m just sayin’. Harry, you need a girl with luscious brunette locks. Me. (Obviously, some princesses have blonde hair, like Princess Di and Grace Kelly and Cinderella. But only one of those ended well….)

Brunettes are naturally classy. It was meant to be.

Speaking of Princess Mary, us Aussie lasses make good princesses. It’s because we are made of good stuff - strong moral fibre, salt water, gumnuts and wine. That may not sound like a winning combination, but trust me, it works. An Aussie chick will keep you grounded by calling you a whinging pom when you get a bit stuffy. You are probably surrounded by people who tell you what you want to hear – but what you need is a woman who will call you a dickhead when you’re being… well, a dickhead. I will proudly call you a dickhead, darling.

What else does a prince need in a missus? Someone who is good with direction. Why? Buckingham Palace is frigging huge. I may be missing the needle on my internal compass, but I am ready to live in a castle. Siri will help me out. I bet she knows her way to the ballroom from the stables.

Siri is being a polite smart arse, but pretty sure she's Buckingham ready.
(And yes, she calls me Lover Chops... it just feels right)

It must be hard being a prince and trying to weed out the girls with the wrong intentions. Rest assured, dear Hubba Bubba, I am not after your fortune. Although, I did read today that you're getting $18million on your thirtieth birthday in two months. I am turning 27 in September (we can have joint birthday parties when we are married), and I will probably get $20 in a floral card from my grandma. So I fully understand wanting to protect your assets. But don’t worry, I will be very good when we combine our bank accounts. Yesterday I bought boots that were on sale from $250 to $120, so technically I made $130. 

Unlike the ridiculous contestants, I never for a second believed that you were the prince in that stupid TV show, I Want To Marry Harry**. I know you. I’ve always been on your side, Future Hubby Harry. I’ve always argued that you were the hotter brother. More hair, more tan, more muscles. And you’re just a little bit wicked. A bit cheeky, a bit of a larrikin. Like the time you dressed as a Nazi for Halloween. Not the sharpest pencil in the box that day, but I sympathised – one time, when I was ten, I dressed as Cruella DeVil, and everyone accused me of identifying with puppy-killers. Well… they didn’t… but I’m sure if I was famous someone would’ve made a fuss.

My future hubby, keeping the tabloids in business. (Times like this, I would call him a dickhead)

Those girls that you have dated with long double-barrelled names and posh upbringings look kind of boring. I can flip two beers coasters at once and catch them on the first flip. I can whistle with my fingers and I have a lethal right cross. I can swear in Romanian, Spanish, Italian, French, and very colourfully in English, and I love potatoes more than an Irishman. I'm learning to juggle, because it would make for much more interesting footage of royal occasions if one of the princesses were juggling. I’ve thought this through.

Harry. Haz. HRH. Hubby-to-be. You need me. You can stop looking, I'm right here. Who knows how to be your perfect wife? I do. Henry Albert Charles David Windsor… I do.

With love and limited patience,
Lucy G. (HRH2B)

*Vicuña wool comes from the vicuña, which is like a fancy-looking llama with wool so damn fine (literally), it’s the most expensive material in the world. I assume that I will have slippers and car seat covers made of it when I’m Harry’s princess.

**Seriously, did those chicks actually believe that a Prince of England would go on a reality show in a foreign country to find a wife to share the Windsor fortune with? Did someone spike their coconut waters with stupid pills?!

By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably outside Buckingham Palace, with a pair of binoculars and a wedding dress.

No comments:

Post a Comment