Argh! Harry has given me PTSD – Post Traumatic Spare Disorder
Perhaps it’s just me, but after almost a week of wall-to-wall harryonics, I woke up yesterday morning with what can only be described as pTsD ( post Traumatic spare Disorder).
The symptoms are unmistakable. I flinch every time I walk past a pub garden, haunted by visions of the young stallion vigorously servicing a sturdy bottom- slapping lady equestrian. each time anyone mentions bridesmaids or dresses I get a ringing in the ears.
I’ve also really gone off mushrooms and, for related reasons, tequila.
as, I’m sure, has Courteney Cox, aka Monica from Friends. I mean, of all the people she might have thought would leak the fact that she keeps ‘a huge box of black diamond [ magic] mushroom chocolates’ in her house in Los angeles ‘for everybody’, or that he ‘washed them down’ with tequila, I’ll wager prince harry would not have been top of her list.
That said, I have yet to mistake my kitchen bin for a human head (as harry did after consuming the fungi-infused confectionery); but I have come to view my Ikea lamps in a less flattering light. Well, the sussexes were ashamed of theirs.
AS for my sofa, bought second-hand from a friend, imagine my horror when I checked and discovered that, like harry’s and Meghan’s, it came originally from sofa.com? I kid you not.
I’m so confused. I mean, are the royal Family racist or not? First harry says they are, then he claims they’re not — and that he never said so in the first place, even though we all witnessed it with our own eyes and ears.
Then again, just as recollections may vary, appearances can also be misleading: Meghan, for example, harry tells us, is ‘not visibly black’ — whatever that means.
as for Camilla, Queen Consort, is she or isn’t she a ‘villain’? again, first he said she was, then he said she wasn’t. I’ve met her a couple of times and always thought she was perfectly nice, but admittedly I never checked her for signs of horns or a pointy tail.
Turns out I’m wrong. If I’ve fallen for her, I’m the victim of the Queen Consort’s nefarious plot to inveigle herself with members of the British press. how could I have been so stupid as to mistake this evil media mastermind for a rather jolly middle-aged lady in comfortable shoes who quite likes a glass of wine and a chat about books?
perhaps the problem is I just don’t believe enough in my own truth. I mean, I’ve never hugged a grave or communed with the dead via my Christmas decorations — although the cat did knock one or two off the tree this year.
Could someone have been trying to tell me something? My dear departed granny, perhaps? My father always said she was a bit of a bauble-breaker.
Maybe I should open up my doors of perception to the hallucinogenic plant-based brew ayahuasca, as harry did.
Or perhaps it’s my hormones. Or lack thereof. I’m post-menopausal, you see — although not many people know me well enough to point that out.
Or maybe I should just stop. Maybe we should all just stop. stop letting this man fill our heads with his inconsistent ramblings. stop dancing to his and Meghan’s siren song. at the end of the day there are worse things in life than being given the slightly less nice bedroom at Balmoral.
and there are more important things to worry about than someone we used to hold in great affection — but who is now nothing less than a national embarrassment.