subject: Will-Kat need me [print this page] Will-Kat need me Will-Kat need me
The last few days I have been hovering around our letter-box. Every time I pass it by, I look at it longingly, peep inside anxiously. My tiny mail-box is tired of me. Can you please leave me in peace, even I need my privacy!
Our building's security guard has been eyeing me suspiciously. Madamjee ka lagtaa hai finally dimaag kharaab ho gaya hai. Waise bhi saraa din kuch na kuch likhti rahti hai. Sahab bhi pareshaan hai. (Looks like Madamjee has finally lost it. As such she keeps scribbling in her notebook, even her husband is sick and tired)
What he doesn't know is, ever since I read in the papers that Will-Kat have posted invites (1900 to be precise) for their hotly anticipated royal wedding I have been getting anxiety pangs. My guest authors on A-musing have led me to believe that I am a celebrity blogger. Some even went to the extent of imagining an entire interview with me. All this gushing has turned me to mush. My head has been looking a little swollen lately.
But now I am plagued with self-doubt. I am neither royalty, far from diplomatic - in fact I am too common for comfort. What if I don't get invited at all what do I tell my million fans. I am answerable to them, after all. Weren't they looking forward to my spicy coverage of this Royal event! Who wore what? Did Elton John come wearing a gown? What is the secret behind Victoria Beckham's pout? How will the world come to know if I am not around! Will-Kat need me, yes I believe they need me more than I need them.
The husband is convinced that I am getting the invite and is insisting I shouldn't waste time downstairs. Dahhling knowing Britain's love for all things archaic, the invite will be coming through registered post. This has sent my blood pressure soaring.
The post office guy who delivers our post on his rickety cycle makes Pratibha Patil look like a spring chicken. When he walks, you can hear his bones creaking, his bifocals fogged out from his laboured breath. What if he can't read the address right? What if he forgets that he is a postman? What if he never wakes up at all!! I have promptly gifted him a jar of Chawanprash which now comes in Mango and Orange flavours. He at least smiles a lot these days, especially at me. Chalo at least my royal invite will be delivered safely to me.
The Will-Kat love story had an interesting start. Almost nine years back, William saw Kate Middleton in knitted dress that left little to the imagination. It was lust at first sight for him at the St Andrew's University charity fashion show. Charity was the last thing in his mind.
Since the invite is of paramount importance to me, I am planning to design an adivaasi style ensemble to reignite their passion. And since I am a confirmed feminist I think I'll design it for Prince William instead. It will be airy and very environment friendly. Kate will love it.
Or I can endear myself to Prince Charles. His love for the Mumbai dabba-wallahs is well known. Commissioning Subodh Gupta to do a steel-dabba installation will be too expensive a proposition. Why not pose as a dabbe-walli instead and mail him my new book History in a dabba. Nutshell is now too small for history.
I have heard the Queen is on FB now, why don't I try to befriend her instead! Hey hot chica, love those dentures!!
Now that should work.
And if all fails I can always reach out for my broomstick. No, I haven't learnt to fly on it, at least not yet. Since most janitors from Heathrow to Hyde Park are Indians, I can easily get a cleaning lady's job and insist on my preference for Westminster Abbey the venue of the Royal Wedding. If a DIG can clean the Chief Minister's sandals and the President of our country can scour utensils to earn madam's approval, what's a broomstick for the sake of my fans?
