Mary has a moment...momentarily
I'm getting creeped out here. Can you PLEASE try and get hold of Fred (I haven't seen him for days) and tell him to talk to his ma and convince her that I have a FEMININE presque-zizi. It's all girl, OK? All pink. It's really bad for my skin when I hear that Dais has been communicating with those slags on that blog. Can't Fred get the security guys to block the site or something or suing them for defecation of character or whatever you call it? And how about them getting hold of the guy who ran the Star Bar in Sydney, Gavan? What did he tell them about my time as Love Account Manager? And why can't my dad and my step-dumpling hang out with his folks? It's bad for my ego having my side of the family treated as though they aren't just as important and way more classy than a couple of clog wogs - any clog wogs.
I'm feeling isolated and upset, and it's bad for the baby. I am on notice that I have to produce something pretty classy, or Fred 'n me is all out the window. Everything I do those Cece&Hester whores are onto. Best wiggery in the business - black market Romanian hair - and they spot it. I'm supposed to be HOT. That's what princesses are about. How can I show my face in public if I don't look HOT?
Have a bone to pick with you, Amber. You showed up at Centennial Park looking like a slag in a muu-muu thinggy, as per our contractual agreement, trying to make me feel as though you're still the ugly friend. THEN I get to see the makeover glamour pix all over the Tito website. It's just NOT ON for you to look better than I do. Don't make me send over a new contract, cuz this one will definitely not be in your favour, hm? Just tow the line, please.
GOD, I just hate my mother for passing me those early-ageing genes. And why the hell did my grandmother send me all those cruddy little twee cards? It's not MY fault I threw them out. It's HER fault for not having taste. And looking too ordinary! I'm SPECIAL and they have ALL let me down. Including you, Amber.
Oh, shit. Get up, kid. Get up. Dammit. Meeeeeeetttttt-uhhhh! Come get the kid, he fell and he's getting blood all over our non-decorated, stale palace. Oh, crap, look at that cut. Right in the middle of the forehead. Jesus, that's all I need. Now my kid's letting down the side and is going to look like one of those street kids church groups make you send money to to feed. Great, Marie-Chantal and Carina will see this at Chrissytime and know for sure now that I'm not on the same level as them. They're already on to me, I'm afraid. You can't believe what upstarts American girls can be! Look, just keep a closer eye on the kid, Mette, OK?
Anyway, what happened to that forum I was ghosting on all day and all night? Dead as a doornail. There's a new one called Royaldic or something. As in Heraldic. Can you hop on and post some PR for me? I'm too scared to go on the net. I found some weird thing while I was casing around feminine archetypes to get some pointers. It turned out Fred's search history was casing around feminine archetypes too. There's an archetype called the Hideous Damsel who confronts the Dumbling when he's about to achieve success. I had this horrible, horrible sensation Fred is viewing me as a Hideous Damsel. What do I do? You're a bit of a Hideous Damsel aren't you? Are we both? Is it too late? Can I quickly segue into a Princess Anne type or the Queen, I mean the real Queen, of course. But the trouble is Amber I am relying totally on clothes for effect - take away the Prada & the weave and I deflate like one of Fred's fun rubby-rubby dolls. I'm sad! I'm worthless! I installed all those bathrooms and I've found myself on the floor licking the tiles, many times! What's going on in my psyche, Amber????
I need you! Don't desert me! Amber, stop becoming classy and beautiful and contented and studying and being worthy, PLEASE. You just make things WORSE. Why didn't anyone warn me? What has everyone done to me? Why did I mess with my looks? Cece and Hester were right all along - I should have been warm and natural and me, me, not me, me, ME but the real me, the sort of country-type horsey classy girl, kind of no-nonsense, the Scotch Nanny... the Bo-Bo ... oh, why oh why did I crap on about being sporty when I never looked at a stick after school? Why did I tell all those lies? Fred put me up to it, I tell you! I didn't know gold Lurex would make me look like a Love Account Manager. Why didn't Fred know what he wanted and just let me be me? Why can't I just live in a palace and not have to be Queen? I don't want to be Queen. I just want to SHOP. Why can't I choose a nanny and not have a spy-nanny reporting back to Margrethe?
I know what I want! Cece and Hester will guide me. They can do a Trinny and Susanne make-over-the-make-over and reverse me out of this cultural desert and disaster. I'm beginning to think that they're right about Anja. No more wearing curtains! No more witchy-poo hats. NO SMOKED COD. NO ROLLMOPS. NO RICE FUCKING PORRIDGE FOR CHRISTMAS DINNER. NO FUCKING FROG FATHER-IN-LAW. And Frederik can go take a flying fuck at a doughnut. He can go take a flying fuck at the moooooooooooon......
You still there? What does truth serum taste like? I'm telling you, Daisy must be slipping something into my drink. I'm going to cut her off at the pass - go where she's going. Get those bloggers on side. Bogansons, wha hae! We've lost the battle, but I have a fallback plan. Send that Tui Ha Moti-Poti or whatever that Maori prince boyfriend of yours's name is over. I think we need an ANZAC battle plan, now that the Boganson teeth are in abeyance. I need to learn a Maori HAKA, a big, scary one, that I can do at Margrethe's KUR. I'll show her who's really in charge!