Only
24 hours after the announcement of the Royal pregnancy and I have already
reached overload. I guess we could all
have predicted the hysteria that would accompany such a reveal –
The Sun's ever-punning headline writers have outdone themselves this morning – and the
world’s press is camped outside the King Edward VII Hospital for Officers (to
give it its full title) in London’s Marylebone.
You would think (hope) that in the wake of the recent debacle over phone
hacking by the UK press and it being demonstrated to be a bunch of sharks,
rotters and scum-sucking bottom feeders, it might have collectively decided
that the less said the better. But no.
You
have to feel for Kate. Not only is she
feeling like crap as most do in their first trimester, she is having to contend
with the incessant, uncontrollable vomiting that is hyperemesis gravidarum and do the whole thing in the public
eye. So while she is talking to God on
the great white telephone, the rest of the world is obsessing over whether, if
it is a girl, will they call it Elizabeth or GOD FORBID – DIANA!! Actually, what a hoot if it did turn out to
be a girl and they do call her Diana and she takes after Uncle Harry and shags
her way round the world, getting herself photographed naked on a throne or two
whilst puffing on some suspiciously home-made looking cigarettes…. But please God, don’t tell me we are now in
for 9 whole feckin’ months of Kate ‘n Wills baby fever. Let it be twins, I beg you. Then at least she’s had an heir and a spare
and can safely relax and none of us has to go through the whole horrible
experience twice.
So
all of this and Kate finds herself in the Royal Family’s hospital of choice
when I am damn sure she would rather be ensconced in some swanky private
clinic. Not that King Ed VII is a hole
in the ground – far from it – and I should know because I worked there for a
spell during my nursing days. I expect
it may have been done up by now, but the skanky nets, still at the windows, tell
another story. There was nothing
massively wrong with it – it was a good, safe place with decent nursing care
but it was a bit, well, bare. In fact,
probably exactly the sort of cell-like environment enjoyed by the Royals at
Balmoral or any of their other draughty castles. I have memories of few pictures on the walls,
no carpet – brown lino instead – and everything being a bit utilitarian. I
expect the Windsors feel right at home there.
Mind
you, that didn’t seem to stop the great and the good from queuing up to be admitted. During my time, I looked after
the grandfather of a famous journalist, a film director and the odd model or two
(usually having their wisdom teeth out to enhance their gaunt faces) amongst others. Princess Margaret was admitted while I was
there, but not on my floor. I heard via
the grapevine that she was very nice but quite demanding. Didn’t like the hospital food and kept
sending out for chopped liver sandwiches.
Bleurgh!
Princess
Michael of Kent was also admitted whilst I was there. She was on my floor. And the less said about her, the better!
