The royal family

ELEVEN years ago, Hilary Mantel – gimlet-eyed dissector of the monarchy – scandalised the organs of the state which specialise in destroying the princesses they affect to adore. In an essay for the London Review of Books, she described Kate Middleton, then pregnant with George, as a “jointed doll on which rags are hung” and a “shopwindow mannequin” whose “point and purpose” was to give birth.

The Sun, which a few weeks ago informed its readers Kate’s “arsenal of beauty and wellness tricks” included a face mask made from bee venom and bouncing on the trampoline before the school run, dismissed Mantel’s carefullyconstructed critique as “a bizarre rant”.

The Express, which last July revealed how Kate positions her chin to “perfectly showcase her smile”, reviled it as “an astonishing attack”.

David Cameron took time out of a trip to India to call it “misguided”, while others suggested Mantel, who suffered from endometriosis, was motivated by jealousy over Kate’s capacity to conceive.

Mantel was fascinated by Marie Antoinette, “a woman eaten alive by her frocks”, and Anne Boleyn, who went to the scaffold because of her failure to produce male progeny.

Her essay was about the objectification of royal women, the way they exist only to be gazed at, salivated over, devoured.

But if, as she suggested, princesses are like pandas – paraded for our delectation – what happens if they suddenly remove themselves from display?

What happens if, one day, we turn up at the zoo to find the cage empty? What if there is no explanation from those in charge, and no mechanism for demanding our money back?

As we now know, we write our own dark fairy tale, we fill the lacuna with feverish visions from our own heads. We feel we have a right to do this because the Royal Family is paid for directly from our pockets. We own them. They are in service to us. And what are they, anyway, if not a projection of our own psyches? What are they for if not to keep us entertained?