04 March 2005

The enviable Camilla Parker Bowles

Never mind her her nickname of imperial frump. Never mind her status as the royal slut. Heck, I’d do anything for those wrinkles deep as the meanders of a river, that awful, laughable dress sense and her sordid reputation.

The late Princess of Wales will turn in her grave. Please forgive me, Diana, I do respect you, I adore everything you stand for, but like every other woman, I shamelessly crave insanely devoted, puppy dog love more than anything else.

Camilla’s Prince is her handmaiden. Bless him, he is brave. He risks the wrath of country and Queen, her cold stares, her scorns laced with cockneyed British wit.

As it turns out, most ironically, he’s almost the 21st Century’s greatest lover. Imagine loving someone for 27 years, with the eagerness that not even marriage (his/hers) could dampen. Imagine rolling in moist mud, in full view of rumour-hungry paparazzi just to deliver a perfectly romantic tryst.

I’m a bright shade of green. The most photographed and beautiful woman in the world, with impeccable taste, flawless skin and golden hair, wasn’t even close to re-ascending the throne in his heart. Insane, the red blooded men of the world would declare. And due to what? Her impeccable wit. The fact that she makes him laugh. The fact that he enjoys every moment of her company despite deplorable clothes, wrinkles, and a crooked smile that would send shivers down the spine of the aforementioned red-blooded men.

Which reminds me of my Tim Sum chef who migrated to this country with his wife. He looks like a moviestar. She looks like a housewife. She tells him he treats her mean, in front of the customers. He tells the world he got her flowers on her birthday. She loses her temper. He loses business on Valentine’s day from closing his shop to take her out.

Love is the strangest animal I’ve ever come across. But heck, I’m going hunting with the horses and hounds, and I'm going to shoot Prince Charles.

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