…. And as the fetching (and not even a little bit gay) prince (in his tight white jodhpurs and brown thigh high boots) intentionally and carefully bowed his head down towards the blessed and fortunate princess (who was more than a little bit annoyed he was wearing her boots) and brushed his lips gently against hers (careful not to smudge her lip liner) a concerto of salient song began to rise from behind them (Ministry of sound presents the best of R&B 3)…
…And as the music played on (drowning out all thoughts of bronzed beach ready men, from both of their minds) and as he gazed deeply in to her crystal white eyeballs romantically, grabbed her tiny perfectly manicured hand and whispered (quite literally) sweet (FA) nothings in to her shell-like, together they decided cheerfully and deliberately to toddle off in to the fawning yellow, orange and red sunset…(Clearly for dramatic effect)...
And of course,
The princess and the (camp) prince live happily ever after…
Yes, they lived happily ever after…
Did they though?
I mean, it is all very well ambling off in to the sunset on a nice warm day isn’t it? Or, even, like in some of my favourite fairytales, splashing away in a rowing boat with a warbling frog serenading you with a Peter Andre hit, or even I suppose in a more realistic sense, driving away with tin cans suspended off the boot of your car and ‘Just married’ scrawled in shaving foam across your back window, but seriously?
Happily ever after?
What happens then, when twilight approaches and you realise that while you have been too busy hiking off in to the middle of nowhere, gawking in to one another’s openings to the soul, not only have you caught sunstroke and are now beginning to feel distinctly frigid and nauseous, but that he (the village idiot), being the self- centered, tedious and irresponsible imbecile he is turning out to be, forgot to bring the bloody coats?
It is a bit more challenging to gaze devotedly in to one another’s eyes, when your teeth are chattering incessantly and your nipples could cut through glass, isn’t it?
It is slightly more arduous to remain with the feelings of happily ever after, when you are vomiting in to an ice bucket and he is holding your hair back while checking out your arse, isn’t it? (Because let’s face it. They probably do.)
What happens then, to the Happily Ever After, when you realise that while you have been too busy splatting about in the middle of the Atlantic ocean, enjoying the time spent with your singing frog and the man of your dreams, that you are actually in fact starving, miles away from the nearest Harry Ramsdens and that Prince Fumble in the jungle here, couldn’t catch a fish in a deep fat fryer?
OOOO I’m on a roll now,
And what happens, to the (spit it out now) Happily Ever After, when you arrive half a mile down the road from the church in which you just declared your undying love and betrothed yourself to him forever, when he turns around with a look of glee etched on to his features, starts waving besottedly at a 6 foot, perfect figured, big boobed goddess and starts advising you that this is, in fact his ex, she lives next door, he absolutely adores her and that you and she, will, no doubt, get on like a house on fire.
What happens then ey? (EY? A spade that’s what! A spade!!!)
AND what happens 3 months post Sunstroke-gate when she drunkenly forgets to reach for a condom, gets impregnated, tears her Tupperware from tit to tatters and ends up in a mental institute having spent too long chasing all her scattered marbles aimlessly around the living room floor?
What happens then ey? (EY?)
I tell you what I believe would help maintain the happily ever after.
I believe that if all men, princes, paupers, kinsmen and blokes came with a handbook, life would be a lot damn simpler. THAT’S WHAT.
I believe, that at the age of 19 there should be a mandatory handbook ceremony held for all men. (Mandatory like the army is mandatory in Spain. A civil service type agreement.)
From the ceremony until the end of time, they are to keep the handbook with them at all times. Through every relationship, through every argument and through every tryst, the handbook must be accessible for the female to read/use/study at any given moment.
The lady in question can then fill in the handbook as she goes along and when she deems it necessary, therefor preparing the next potential girlfriend for what is to come, and what she expect from this fellow without ever having to meet her.
PERFECT!! Don’t you agree?
Very immature, laughs at his farts, never does washing. 01/08/1999.Annabel.
Great at cooking, very bad wind and total commitment-phobe. 02-11-2001.Jane.
Picks his nose & eats it, can happily sit on loo for up to 3 hours. 09-9-2006.Meg.
Cooks a lot, great in bed but won’t wash knives and forks. 01-01-2008.Susan.
Generous, Lazy. Farts too much, moody, boring but great in bed. 07-07-2010.Lisa.
Needs another mother, never mind a girlfriend, also, pretty sure he is gay… 01.01.2016 .Princess Anon.
Charming my arse. 04.05.2020.Cinderella.
That sort of thing, do you see what I am getting at?
I honestly believe that if all men came with a handbook, our happily ever after’s would be a lot more accessible.
We could window shop.
‘OO farts a lot, no thanks! But hmmm Great in bed, may be worth the excessive farting, hmmm may give it a go… oh no! Doesn’t wash the knives and forks! That’s a deal breaker, NEXT HANDBOOK PLEASE!!’
(Wouldn’t it also make life a hell of a lot easier if all ex girlfriends were then transported/shipped/kicked off to another planet entirely with no reception on their slutty phones, where they were forced to spend their days eating Pringles and watching ‘Psycho!’ on repeat? I think so.)
But anyway, back to reality with one hell of a bump.
There are no handbooks, there is no singing Peter Andre frog and there is no rest for the wicked.
Here I am, having gathered as many marbles back in to my quality street tin as I possibly can over the last 3 weeks, suitcase in one hand, Addison, Doodle and The Irish One in the other, about to walk out of the mental hospital for the first and hopefully only time in my life.
Addy, the Irish one, Doodle Mcpoodleson and I, all holding hands (Doodle walking on two legs like a real life boy- bless him, he has such abandonment issues) getting ready to stroll off in to the sunset.
I am leaving behind my crazy friends, I am leaving behind my own room, I am leaving behind my 15 minute observations, I am leaving behind the safety of being allowed to be mental, and I am heading off in to the big bad world, with a new set of coping mechanisms, a pot heart and a little leap of faith hoping to set me free.
I have tears running down my face as I say my goodbye’s to the home I have hated, sobbed in, been broken within, liked and eventually loved.
I do not feel ready, but then I am not sure I ever will.
Will I live happily ever after?
I doubt it. (For all of the reasons above, plus add in a gastro enteritis prone poodle, a toddler with a penchant for licking plug sockets, a pelvic floor supported entirely by Tena Lady and an Irish one that eats more cow than can possibly be healthy and a permanently blocked bog… the list is endless…)
But more importantly will I live forever after?
I plan to.
And really, that is what matters, I suppose.
*This post was sponsored by Post natal depression, the road to recovery, stamping it out step by step.