On Saturday night, WXII News broke the critically important story that Meghan Markle’s dad had bought some books on England and was apparently studying up on the lore and protocol of his daughter’s soon-to-be-adopted homeland.
The assembled newsfolk clucked their collective approval of Dad going old-school with books rather than relying on the internet for information.
Dad probably had no other choice. A Pinterest search of “Royal Protocol” yields results littered with little other than photos of his daughter gallivanting across the British Isles sporting a wide selection of stylish coats. After the shock of seeing his California daughter wearing an actual woolen coat, he probably realized there was little to learn on the interwebs that he didn’t already know, and headed off to Amazon or Barnes & Noble to buy a book.
And that would have been the end of that had I not toddled off to bed shortly thereafter, and no doubt under the influence of too much sriracha and the ghost of Sigmund Freud, began to dream of Old Blighty.
As my dream life is far more exciting than my waking life, it should come as no surprise that as soon as the Rapid Eye Movement kicked it, I found myself to be a guest at the royal wedding in question. But even the fervent imaginings of my subconscious could not secure me a good table at the reception. I was seated at a picnic on the grounds of Windsor Castle on the wrong side of the moat from the primary festivities. Seated on an idyllic lawn that looked suspiciously like one of the fairways at Cross Creek Country Club (the one near the clubhouse where you can see the little wooden footbridge), the reception appeared poised to begin.
My D-list tablemates, (or perhaps I should say quiltmates), and I were seated around the patchwork quilt on which my friends Kitsey and Morgan take daily photos of their infant son. The quilt was laid out with translucent white bone china which I thought really ought to have a big golden royal crest like the ones in the picture books. I’m sure Mr. Markle was likewise disappointed, despite what I can only hope for him was a better seating placement.
As the woman seated next to me, who looked suspiciously like the Dowager Countess of Grantham, explained rather imperiously that outdoor china never includes a crest and only an American vulgarian would not know that, a footman began to serve Jimmy John subs out of a royal blue Tupperware container, the lid of which was engraved with the words “Kate & William” in one of those ornate Gothic scripts where the verticals are parallel lines with a space between them.
While I’m musing that even royals borrow serving pieces from their relatives, the footman gets to me, and I look down to see that I have no plate, gilded crest or otherwise. It wasn’t quite as mortifying as the naked-on-the-subway dream, but it was right up there.
I am really going to have to have a long talk with my subconscious someday. I am sick and tired of it taking me to fancy places where I don’t belong and then snubbing me while I’m asleep and can’t defend myself. If I need to be insulted by myself, I see no need for international travel.
About that time, someone I knew 20 years ago snatches up the engraved Tupperware lid and plops it down right in front of me just before the footman is about to drop me a piece of sub onto my friend’s baby quilt. Thank goodness for his quick thinking and kindness. What would I say to Kitsey and Morgan if little Cullen Bodhi had to crawl around on a mustard-stained quilt?
So now I’m sitting there eating fast food off the engraved Tupperware of the heir to the British throne when it occurs to me I really need to say thank you to somebody with whom I’ve been annoyed for two decades without even realizing it.
You see, my rescuer is a distant in-law of an American princess whose name I really shouldn’t drop, and during our brief acquaintance, he had pointed out a fatal flaw in the business plan of the childrenswear firm my friend Nancy and I had started in 1994. We had thought for four years that business success was just a matter of increasing our sales until we could benefit from economies of scale.
But a flaw in our pricing formula (which was my fault) ensured we would never break even and make money. In fact, the more we sold, the deeper in the hole we’d go, and the fellow who had saved Cullen Boddhi’s quilt in my dream had been the one to figure out our dilemma in real life. After only about 10 minutes. I’ve always thought I was grateful to him for putting us out of our misery, but apparently, my subconscious has been holding a grudge.
And refusing to take responsibility for my actions. So I need to stop doing that. And maybe get some of that engraved Tupperware. That stuff is impressive.
Reach Bill Colvard at 336-415-4699.