Happily Never After

Dear Fairy Godmother,

Day one of operation Marriage Carriage.  Have woken up dawn-break early, full of vim, vigour, and uncontainable excitement at prospect of future life as Mrs Prince Charming.  Ignoring all negativity henceforth.  It is, after all, completely irrelevant that said Prince and I have never actually met, nor that I am not entirely sure that he even exists.  (America has a monarchy, right?) In the grand scheme of things – and I am all about the grand schemes – these things do not matter.  ‘The course of true love…’ and all that...  And I am committed to achieving that ever-promised smooth run.  

Opening strains of bridal march break the silence.  Doves released into technicoloured sky. Zoom in on chaste but sensuously charged kiss. Roll credits.

With that in mind… my newly-purchased rustic bed clothes are flung aside as I now leap into heroine mode. First task: charming the animals.  But only the cute ones.  No-one is likely to fall in love with a modest girl draped in a python after all.  Squirrels and chipmunks are top of my agenda.  Apart from their obvious dish-washing capabilities, they offer the perfect accessory to my natural auburn good-looks.  Plus, the bushiness of their tails accentuate my slender waist.  Very important.   Must find some rodent luring tactic without being too obvious.  Striking the balance between animal fondling to heighten outward image of maternalism and coming across as some sort of pervert might prove to be a bit of a fine line.  Also, birds.  Must be ready for inevitable moment of spontaneous song singing, bedecked in adoring avian choir.  Nothing screams ‘marry me’ more than a woman singing to a robin casually posed on her dainty, yet vacant, ring finger.

Enough for now.  Busy day ahead.

Toodle-pip! 

The Future Mrs P Charming.

****

Dear Mrs F Godmother,

May have underestimated my natural animal magnetism.  Seventy-four bird feeders, a few dozen squirrel picnics, and one deluxe hedgehog hotel later, and I now have a balcony caked in animal shit.  

I, however, am undeterred.  For I have the answer to all my domestic needs: the trusty broom.  Lavishly constructed from six twigs bound together with golden curls spun from my own fair pubic hair.  What could be better?  Now fully kitted out for hours of back-breaking brooming, I feel sure my Prince appeal is all set to sky rocket.  It’s a shame my one-bedroom flat in suburbia is a carpeted affair but this will not stop me.  Those fibres will be twig-brushed to within an inch of their fibrous lives.  Plus, there are a score of other activities to be getting on with in the trial-by-housework heat: mending, fetching, cauldron stirring.  Singing into wells to extract water.  Resting on rustic broom handle, hand to brow, to accentuate delicate girlish figure.  Stoking the fire – may prove difficult due to no actual fire; may need to substitute to radiator bleeding. Details aside, a woman’s work is never done, as they say.  And I am fully committed to temporarily rolling around in the cinders of life, if that is the prerequisite for a lifetime of grape sucking, sophistication and sashaying down staircases one glass slipper at a time. 

Must dash. A day’s basking in the glory of domestic labour to prove womanly worth ahead.

TTFN,

The Future Mrs P Charming.

****

Dear Mrs F G Mother,

Turns out that six twigs and some pubic hair do not a broom make.  Now have a carpet full of twig-like debris and a balcony caked in animal shit.  Have also received some very unneighbourly complaints.  Turns out chipmunks can be chatty little buggers.  But can I help it if my natural feminine allure screams motherhood to nature far and wide?  Maybe should consider inviting nature inside?

Be that as it may, am currently in a state of anthropomorphic ecstasy as spent the lion’s share of yesterday evening toe-tapping to the tune of my trusty sewing machine.  Now have a bottom drawer bursting with day-garb for all my balcony-dwelling baby replacements.  Next step: getting said baby replacements to actually wear said day-garb.  A tiny hurdle to overcome when one considers the inevitable pulling power one will achieve as the metaphorical mother to three thousand rat babies.  Maternal capabilities proved.  Next need to create the illusion of childbearing hips as am reliably informed Princes prefer their wives to remain alive whilst trying to push the melon through the pinprick.  Maybe some padding around the bum area?  Sounds classy.  

Speaking of which, ball-worthy footwear pre-ordered from local shoe shop today.  Very exciting.  Explained to cobbler that only the most uncomfortable shoe would do, as it would be an all-night affair and who was I to think I might attend it in comfort?  Cobbler immediately suggested four-inch heels, highlighting the hidden torturous effects of arch stretching, tendon shrinking, and the potential for life-long bunions.  All well and good, but this is a Prince we’re trying to bag here.  Not sure he really had a grasp on just how much pain would be required to ensure royal attention.  Eventually took matters into my own hands and insisted on all of the above... plus made out of glass.  Not sure the clog-wearing cobbler and I understood each other if I’m honest.

Must go.  The hedgehog hotel needs new bed sheets.  I feel a tuneful cleaning song coming on.  Something to really show the world what a merry little nurturer I am.

Tra-la-laaaaaaa!

The Future Mrs P Charming.

****

Dear Mrs Godmother,

Am now broomless with a briar patch for a carpet; a balcony full of shit; chipmunks that are refusing to either tail-dry or lick-wash the dishes; and the mice are naked.  Moreover, somebody’s eaten the hedgehog hotel.  My money’s on the deer.  He was chomping grass like it was going out of fashion when I lured him out of the undergrowth.  Really, I have only myself to blame.  

And yet I am unstoppable.  For tomorrow, my dear Godmother of Fairies, is the day my shoes arrive.  And, as all self-respecting would-be princesses know, it is all about the shoes.

Am now too excited to focus on anything other than the future beauty of my feet.

Your nearly-glass-shoe-wearing goddaughter,

The Future Mrs P Charming.

****

Dear F Mother of God,

Animals have ambushed the flat; the shit is now everywhere.  Neighbours have filed an injunction and am currently in a hospital bed with two broken legs, a fractured hip and a gash above my left eyebrow.  Running down a flight of stairs in glass slippers is much harder than it looks.

The Future Mrs P Charming.

****

Dear Fairy Godmother,

Woke up today with a tall dark handsome stranger at my sick bed, clad in a dashing shade of white.  With sparkly eyes and a winning smile.  Our eyes met as he looked deep into my pupils with his flashlight.  He even readjusted my bed socks – surely only baby steps away from a good old engagement by slipper?  I am currently being transported to my future palace via barred vehicle, my Prince at the helm. What can I say? He's protective.  We’re not quite on first name terms yet, but when did that ever matter when you’re marrying a Prince?

Yours, 

Happily ever after,

The Future Mrs P Charming.