A week is a long time in the monarchy.
Last Monday, we were amazed how chirpy the Queen looked saying ta-ta to Boris and fit like Truss. Days later came the bombshell that she’d died.
All I can say is: what a way to go. After 96 years of being hale and hearty, the end obviously came quickly, maybe even painlessly.
I’m one of the ancients who remembers her coronation, when my dad bought his first telly and welcomed neighbours to watch the grainy pictures. Later, as a young reporter, I covered many of her Neest events, most memorably when she was at her smiliest, as the spectacular Royal Yacht Britannia weighed anchor at the harbour en route to her beloved Deeside every summer.
But now it’s Long Live the King! Just a pucklie months younger than me. As a teenager, when I came home from the Beach dancing bereft because no likely lad had asked me up, mum would console me: “Prince Charles is the only loon good enough for you.”
Later, our prince charming became public enemy number one when Camilla emerged from the shadows and Diana was killed. So, in 1998, the year after her death, when my boss said he planned to introduce me to Prince Charles during his walkabout in our office, I was less than chuffed. Sez me: “Thanks but no thanks.” Comes the boss: “You’re one of the longest serving here. It’s all arranged.” Aaargh.
Becoming a Charlie’s Angel
On the day, I pretended to the other quines I really couldna give a hoot. Truth be told, I’d tried on coontless outfits the night before and my hairtie was fair poundin’ as he walked towards me, inevitable kilt swishin’ sexily.
My vow to be laid-back and unimpressed flew oot the windae the minute he was up close and personal; deeply golden from trekkin’ the heather, a rather hunky scar on his cheek. Ye gods, I think I started fluttering my eyelashes.
He asked if I’d worked there long (having obviously coonted the rings on my trunk). “Thirty years,” I simpered. “I’m only a few months older than you.” My prince flirted: “You certainly don’t look it,” whereupon I giggled and burbled: “Might I say, neither do you.”
Had my boss not broken things up, I fear I might have plonked a kiss on that cutie’s scarred cheek, like the Spice Girl in the Union Jack dress had done the week before.
Once he’d gone, affronted at having lost the plot, I gasped to the girls: “Am I a sad person?” “Yesss!” They hissed, one pretending to honk into a waste basket. Jealous cats.
Still a bittie in love, I sent him my column, complete with artist Helen’s superb cartoon of me as Geri Halliwell. His private secretary wrote back: “His Highness remembers meeting you and is most amused at the drawing.”
I’ve been a Charlie’s Angel ever since, albeit green with envy that my rival, Camilla, finally won. I just wonder if King Charles III recalls that feel gype at the EE.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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