On a royal quest for darling Hilary

Rating: NNNNNI've always been a bit of a royalist. Colonial life is just a little too prosaic for my tastes..

Rating: NNNNN

I’ve always been a bit of a royalist. Colonial life is just a little too prosaic for my tastes. In order to resolve the slight contradiction with my… shall we say, less than blueblood origins, I have made a promise to myself: I will not die before I am given a title by HRH Elizabeth (or Lillibet, as she is known by her nearest and dearest. Like me).

The way I propose to do this is to avail myself of every monarchist moment possible. I have sat for Royal Wedding Teas at the King Edward, I have gone to see (read stalk) visiting royalty and, most recently, I shared in the festivities for the Queen Mum’s 100th birthday at Queen’s Park.

I head over with a friend. Our own Hilary Weston, Lieutenant-Governor and fashion plate extraordinaire, hosts us in the fete for the woman who is a “mother to us all.”

Hilary is wearing a cream- coloured dress dotted with blue flowers and is crowned with a magnificent lavender hat that Fergie herself would die for. Lieutenants have never been more glamorous, though I guess owning Holt Renfrew helps a bit.

My friend, eyes glistening with envy, asks me how one becomes lieutenant-governor.

I think you marry well and host a lot of parties — other than this I have no idea. But if this is what it takes, I can feel myself that much closer to royalty already.

After a few of our dignitaries have waxed poetic about the impact the Queen Mum has had on our collective lives (I think one mentions something about traffic on the QEW), we are offered cake, served to the masses by Hilary herself.

A hostess she definitely is. She banters with the people who step up for a piece of cake. She laughs at their jokes, she smiles beatifically in their faces.

What a lady.

I wait, tingling in anticipation, but I soon realize that old monarchist women can be much pushier than they look.

I find myself jostled by mean grannies vying for a share of the white cake with pink roses, and I never make it to Hilary.

My hopes, my dreams — dashed!

My friend manages to charm one of the dignitaries into giving us a piece to share, but really, it’s not the same.

We head back to work, and in spite of a regally spent lunch hour, I am a little worried. If there are other pretenders to noble titles in this town as rough as the old ladies I had to fight off, I don’t think I’ll even make it to court jester.

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