"Lady Di? Lady Di? RENOIR!"
She got a degree in History of Art. She could get a job at any gallery, perhaps even be the new Simon Schama. She was a fashion buyer for Jigsaw.
There are so many things that Catherine Elizabeth Middleton could do. Hell, she could go and work with her parents in their moderately successful party-bits business. And yet she's thrown it all way, she's about to make the worst decision of her life... which begs me to ask, Carrie Bradshaw style:
Seriously, Middleton, what are you thinking, marrying into royalty when you could be a successful independent woman, like Beyonce off of MTV?
After all, we all know how well some of your predecessors got on - Boleyn, Howard, Ferguson and Spencer to name a handful, and they weren't half as common as you.
Ultimately, you're giving away your life - your privacy, your enjoyment, your very being - to a supposedly more noble cause, for an alleged higher purpose, for the profits of what used to be Fleet Street.
You think it's a bit annoying now, not being able to get your security man to sweet talk traffic wardens without getting in the papers, well just you wait until you're properly institutionalised. That'll be fun.
Perfectly harmless toesucking on the beach will be front page news. Your husband will follow in Daddy's shoes and stick it to married posh girls behind your back. Every dress you wear can never be worn again.
Everywhere you go, flash bulbs and paps and respectable photojournalists and film crews and interviewers and flash bulbs and neon lights and TV presenters and news-readers will be in attendance amid the constant flash bulbs and you'll be consumed by madness and you'll never be skinny enough or you'll be too skinny and you'll throw yourself down the stairs in desperation to avoid another trip to another shopping centre to cut another ribbon because you can't do that with a broken ankle, and your kids will be taken from you and given to nanny, and sent off to public school, and your marriage will be in tatters, and you'll find yourself alone in Kensington Palace, in your private quarters. Only a butler for company. A butler and a salad. A butler and a salad and a desperate urge to get out of there, out of the stifled London, maybe head off to a fancy hotel with your lover, maybe in Paris. . . .
No.
There is an easy way out. Don't show up next Friday.
Go shopping. Go to Bijou. Go anywhere, but the church.
If he loves you, he'll understand.
If he doesn't understand, he doesn't love you.
Marriage is an expression of love, not a submission to an antiquated and obsolete nationalistic and tribal institution.
You are being served up, as the main course, for a country desperate for your beauty, sucking you dry of emotion every time you visit a sick kid in hospital, pulling sequins off your dresses at state balls, and long-lens photographing every intimate moment.
Now's your chance. Learn from the mistakes of the past. Walk away.
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