tranklements

Prince Charles threw himself down theatrically onto the chaise longue.  “God these endless commitments are becoming so tedious,” he huffed, “I spend all my energies meeting heroic Mrs This and amazing Mr That and unveiling silly little plaques in community centres and going to boring functions where no-one quite has the guts to have a proper conversation with me.”
Camilla “aaahhed” and pulled her face the way one does to a tantrum fuelled child.
“This country is going to the dogs you know,” he said, suddenly resigned and left by his initial fire, “Mama’s washed her hands of it, can’t wait to saddle me with it.  The population is just so bloody miserable nowadays, despite having everything they want.  The more money they have, the more they want.  They never have time for anything or take time over anything and my god whatever happened to good taste?  Where did that disappear to?  Lost underneath the piles of money I suppose.”  Camilla could sense the fire returning.  She was becoming rather bored with these regular rants and was unable to see quite what His Royal Highness’ problem was.
“Sweet pea”, she cooed, “you know what I do when I’m feeling a bit het up about life don’t you?  Go and have a bloody good pampering that’s what.  Works wonders, you should try it.”
“Ah yes my little turtle dove”, he replied, a little too patronisingly for her liking, “but look where that got us the last time.  We almost had a revolution on our hands when they got wind of your indulgent hairdo.”
“£30k may seen like indulgence to some, but is cheap at half the price with Jean-Pierre”, she shot back on the defensive.  Camilla felt her feathers (and her hair) really quite ruffled now.
“Suit yourself dearest”, she said as she swanned out of the room, “I was only trying to help.”
Charles settled back into the chaise longue thoughtfully.  His good lady wife had sown the seed of something quite fabulous in his idle mind.

It could not be said that His Royal Highness was not passionate.  He was full of it and did not do very well at keeping it to himself and maintaining the air of impartiality that his dear Mama had mastered so well.  He was passionate about organic food, passionate about architecture and of course his big passion was nature, with which he chatted and of which he painted.  As well as talking the talk he was a man of action, with many ventures under his royal belt to date.  So, he was thinking, why not take some action on this one?  His future subjects of Great Britain needed enlightenment, they needed hope, inspiration, direction, a bit of good taste injecting into their daily drudgery and he would be their man.  More accurately, he would be the man for the men.  He would show his men the way, he would help them to become renaissance men, dandies for the 21st century.
Charles had been feeling for a while that something needed to be done about the lot of the great British man and had been pondering what he could do to help them for some time.  ‘The Modern Man’, a contradiction in terms believed Charles, today’s men are a down-trodden lot, beaten into submission by these bloody feminist women.  I mean, one asks oneself, should modern man be defined by an ability to do the housework, the shopping, the cooking and caring for the children?  No was his firm conviction.  It was not what nature intended.  In nature the males are to be admired, the peacocks, the clothes’ horses, the sparkling jewels of their species.
And so our Prince Charles began to plan his next venture.  His most personal and, he believed, potentially his most socially beneficial yet.  To bring the light back into the lives of British men and show them the way; help them find their truly modern man within.  He would make it his mission to revive the Great British dandy.

Charles rang one of his most trusted friends and advisors to bring him up to speed on his great plan.  The Prince’s excitement was received down the line with an initial pause, followed by a sharp intake of breath and, “Wonderful idea your Royal Highness, and one will be seeing this as a temporary activity until one’s time comes to take the throne of course.  As the Monarch one must be seen to be utterly impartial in all aspects of life.”
Of course this was no revelation to Charles, “So be it,” he stated, breathing an inward sigh of relief, “one is perfectly capable of stepping aside and letting William get on with the job, as one has finally found one’s true calling in life.”

Across the sweaty mass of faces in the club my eyes land on his.
My body stalls.
I haven’t seen him for a year, not since he broke my heart.
“Do you want to leave?” asks Lisa, reading what is written all over my face.
“No.”  I want to look again at that face that was branded into my memory.  That face I had studied for hours so I wouldn’t ever forget it.  Hear his voice again.  Look into those blue eyes again.  His hair is cut differently, he never used to wear checked shirts.
“He’s coming over”, whispers Lisa.
We say hello.  We deal with the niceties.  He asks about my degree, I tell him about the first.  He looks like a proud father, “I always knew you could,” he smiles, “I probably did you a favour by getting out of your life.”
“I’m getting married” he fires a bull’s eye into my heart.
Someone he hardly knew, only just met, on the other side of the world.  “When you know, you just know,” he explains, dealing me the fatal blow whilst looking like the cat that got the cream.
“That’s exactly what I thought about him,” I wail later back at Lisa’s house as she puts her arm around my shoulders and tries to stroke away the pain.

Sharing the shelter of the bus
waiting to be deposited around the city.
Sharing the damp air misting the windows.
Plugged into our own private worlds
through an ipod, a phone, a newspaper, a book.
We don’t want to share anything.

You’re not there; I haven’t heard you for a while.
It’s been ages since we sat outside your door; faces tilted for the sun.
When did we last share a bag of chips?
I can’t remember the last time I waited on the other end of the phone,
while you rattled and clattered to put it down at your end.
I want to hear you laugh.
You understood, you got it.  We could talk.
But you’re not there are you?
You are gone.
I will never hear you again.
But I leave your number in my phone, your address in my book.

You’re only 21 once.
That’s no secret,
but the secret booking
for the secret party
was.
Until it passed to me
by accident.
My secret 21st birthday party.
So, my secret
was keeping secret
from everyone
that I knew their secret.
Not hearing white lies,
pretending not to know.
I wished I didn’t know.
I didn’t want to know.
Didn’t want it to be real.

Why does she not know?
How can she not know?
She should know
it would be the last thing for me.
Why does she not know?
Centre of attention
not for me.
She tried so hard.
Tried to do the right thing
and got it so wrong.

Wrong boyfriend for a start.
Selfish, whingeing, whining,
pathetic that my attention
might not be all for him.
A wrong cocktail of family
mixed with work mates
mixed with school mates
mixed with his surly kin.
All hinged on
and pivoting around
me.
Pretending.
Wrong.

It was over and I was relieved
that I was released
from my role as pretender.
Guilty relief
just as fresh
14 years on.