I’ve never met you but I’ve often thought that if things were different I’d have your life and maybe you’d have one that more closely resembles mine. You see, Prince William and I were born in the same month of the same year and so I naturally presumed we’d end up together. If only I’d gone to bloody St Andrews and not the crappy art college down south where I mostly blew my student loan on marijuana.
Ignoring the fact I thought a game of polo involved mints, not horses, and my parents are not millionaires, self made or otherwise, I did used to presume that I was just one chance meeting away from being the Chosen One.
However, I now realise that it’s a godsend that I am not you. I would not have your restraint when it came to becoming famous. I’d have given ten interviews to Grazia by now and probably would have accidentally slept with Harry. When the Daily Mail started looking into my past they would see that my dad owns a caravan and my brother was expelled from school for having someone else’s urine strapped to the inside of his leg, in a vain attempt to pass the piss test. Then they’d find photographs on Facebook of me snogging my female best friend and before you know it, I’d have given the Queen a heart attack.
I am happy to allow you the mantle of the new People’s Princess, which I know is very gracious of me. Besides, I’ve got my own prince and he can tuck his belly into his jeans and then make it pop out in a swift jolting movement that makes us both giggle.
I had a great time on your wedding day. My prince and I were up with the early birds queuing to get into your prince’s great great great great-grandmother’s holiday home, Osbourne House, on the Isle Of Wight. Osbourne House, which is huge and extraordinary, is not far from my dad’s caravan, which is small and full of spiders, so if you are ever on the island, do pop by for some lashings of ginger beer.
By the time Gareth (that’s my prince, by the way. Not exactly a good name for a future king, I know, but luckily he’s only prince of Warmley and I don’t think he’s going to get promoted) and I got to the big screen in the grounds of Osbourne House, the crowd had splayed out all over the lawn, the Pimms was on ice and the cupcakes had little flags in them.
Prince Gareth and I had not come so prepared. We had a 9% ABV bottle of cider each and a camping chair. I was quickly pissed as a newt and busy joining in conversations with strangers about how pretty your dress was and didn’t you look skinny.
Then the cider wore off and I needed cake. Whilst wondering how on earth you maintain such a skinny physique, I had cider for breakfast and cake for lunch.
I suppose another reason I’m glad you ended up where you are and I ended up where I am is that I really couldn’t bear to call him Wills. It’s an awful abbreviation of a name. Don’t you hate it? Wills. If people called me Kims, I’d feel like I belonged to myself or that the next word was missing. Kims what? Resisting the urge to add an apostrophe to a posh toff's name would probably have resulted in divorce.
I will let you have Prince William. I no longer harbour a longing to be his bride. It looks like far too much pressure never to drink cider for breakfast. I’ll stick with Gareth, who, as it turns out, is really quite lovely and far better suited to my pop-your-belly-out-and-make-me-laugh needs.
PS Just in case William ever wonders what could have been, I have superimposed my face onto yours and attach it to this letter. I look pretty happy but Wills looks like he's realised he's made a mistake marrying someone so pedantic about punctuation.