You may remember me, I wrote to you when you got mazzered last April - thanks for the extra day off by the way.
I thought it high time I write in again. Check up on you. Are you well? Are you eating? You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who eats. I have a funny feeling there is a media embargo on publications discussing your weight, as although there’s a new picture of you in a beautiful dress every day, no one seems to write about the elephant in the room - your tiny frame. I am under no such embargo.
I don’t really have concern for your health so much as just really want to know how you do it. I would love to be a size nothing like you, but I keep accidentally splitting a bottle of wine with a friend and declaring pudding is definitely a must. I doubt you reach over when William's not looking and pinch the chorizo from his plate. I do that.
But anyway, weight issues aside, I really just wanted to say, god damn you get to wear some pretty dresses.
This one gave me a big dollop of green eyed monster. I’m getting married myself in a few months and when I saw this dress, I sent a link to one of my bridesmaids wailing at the knowledge that you had out-dressed me. I’ve got serious dress rage. This dress makes my dress look like I got it in F&F at Tesco. Which I bloody didn’t, as my poor mother knows, it was mega expensive. And now you’ve gone and made me want a different dress.
I also loved this one. Again, you look damn fine in it. I can’t say I’m not jealous of your job, which appears to be two fold: Have great hair. Wear Dresses. I have hair that forgets to grow and no amount of Moroccan Oil will give it the kind of lustrous carefree flicks I pine for. And as for wearing dresses, never do I have the occasion. I did once dine with a king and I wore a dress then, but that was 12 years ago and I can’t really milk that forever. I really need some new banquets and black tie engagements to attend. Don’t suppose you want to throw some my way? I’m awfully good in social situations. I only once called a fat girl fat in a speech and I only once got so drunk I threw up in a plant pot. Ok, maybe twice.
Every morning, I make myself some breakfast then sit at my desk and use the cereal as justification to stop what I'm doing and check the Daily Mail. It’s a website I simultaneously hate and love. I hate it because the Mail hates women. She’s fat, she’s skinny, she’s confident, what a bitch. She’s lost her job, she’s lost her man, she’s lost her shoes, how embarrassing. Oh, and we’ve all got cancer.
It’s not a great start to my day. But I love it because the side panel of celebrity goss feeds my hunger for pictures of famous people with pretty dresses and great hair. Then I hate myself for loving it and love myself for hating it. Most mornings, you’re on there, because you’ve been to another Gala or red carpet event. You’re on there, looking thin and gorgeous with your bouncy hair and your frocks. And I think to myself, hmmm. That’s a nice dress. Nicer than my wedding dress. And I get a bit jealous. I turn to Gareth, future husband, also checking the Daily Mail, but probably not because he’s stalking you, and I show him your latest dress. And he says: ‘yeah great’ without looking over. I’m sorry Kate, I don’t know why he doesn’t show more interest, it’s terribly rude. I mean, does he not realise how well you work a Jenny Packham?