Oh no
Oh noBreaking news on gb news. Terror isis video urges fresh attacks on Western targets including London.
The other thing that has me totally calling bullshit is I do recall from having given birth that my son was placed on my middle while the cord was cut THEN picked up by I think it was his pediatrician because he was 6 weeks premature so he was immediately being assessed to see if he was going to be life flighted to UC Davis or would be able to stay at our local hospitalIT DOESNT MAKE ANY SENSE she would still be numb from the epidural 2 hours later and then slowly recovering. Also they have to catheterise you with an epidural, which means you would then need that removed and pass your trial without catheter - i.e. monitored for several hours to make sure you wee enough. Also she seems to go from minimal dilation to pushing the baby out instantaneously.
There is either some medical malpractice going on, or I'm on #teamsurrogate
jesus wept. I can get a flight out of sumburgh to Aberdeen after half seven tonight (ie January) - yet london to Scotland in the summer is a no go? Fucking fanny he is.Mid afternoon and no more commercial flights to ABZ? Your search engine is frankly mince, Hasno! There are flights leaving City and LHR after 9 pm!
So skipping over why they didn’t think to go and get their kids… suddenly they care about airmiles.Meg greeted me at the front door of Frogmore with a long embrace, which I desperately needed.
We sat down with a glass of water and a calendar.
Our quick trip would now be an odyssey. Another ten days, at least.
Difficult days at that.
More, we’d have to be away from the children for longer than we’d planned, longer than we’d ever been.
When the funeral finally took place, Willy and I, barely exchanging a word, took our familiar places, set off on our familiar journey, behind yet another coffin draped in the Royal Standard, sitting atop another horse-pulled gun carriage.
Same route, same sights—though this time, unlike at previous funerals, we were shoulder to shoulder.
Also, music was playing. When we got to St. George’s Chapel, amid the roar of dozens of bagpipes, I thought of all the big occasions I’d experienced under that roof. Grandpa’s farewell, my wedding. Even the ordinary times, simple Easter Sundays, felt especially poignant, the whole family alive and together. Suddenly I was wiping my eyes.
Why now? I wondered.
Why?
The following afternoon Meg and I left for America.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
I just hope KC, Camilla and the rest of RF give them all the support they needThis fills me with such sadness. Poor poor William
Thought he said in an earlier passage that the RF hated hugs?The next few days were given over to a whirlwind work trip.
Manchester, Dusseldorf, then back to London for the WellChild Awards.
But that day—September 8, 2022—a call came in around lunchtime.
Unknown number. Hello?
It was Pa. Granny’s health had taken a turn.
She was up at Balmoral, of course. Those beautiful, melancholy late-summer days.
He hung up—he had many other calls to make—and I immediately texted Willy to ask whether he and Kate were flying up. If so, when? And how?
No response.
Meg and I looked at flight options.
The press started phoning; we couldn’t delay a decision any longer.
We told our team to confirm: We’d be missing the WellChild Awards and hurrying up to Scotland.
Then came another call from Pa. He said I was welcome at Balmoral, but he didn’t want…her.
He started to lay out his reason, which was nonsensical, and disrespectful, and I wasn’t having it.
Don’t ever speak about my wife that way.
He stammered, apologetic, saying he simply didn’t want a lot of people around. No other wives were coming, Kate wasn’t coming, he said, therefore Meg shouldn’t.
Then that’s all you needed to say.
By now it was midafternoon; no more commercial flights that day to Aberdeen.
And I still had no response from Willy.
My only option, therefore, was a charter out of Luton. I was on board two hours later.
I spent much of the flight staring at the clouds, replaying the last time I’d spoken with Granny. Four days earlier, long chat on the phone. We’d touched on many topics. Her health, of course. The turmoil at Number 10. The Braemar Games—she was sorry about not being well enough to attend. We talked also about the biblical drought. The lawn at Frogmore, where Meg and I were staying, was in terrible shape.
Looks like the top of my head, Granny! Balding and brown in patches.
She laughed.
I told her to take care, I looked forward to seeing her soon.
As the plane began its descent, my phone lit up. A text from Meg. Call me the moment you get this.
I checked the BBC website.
Granny was gone.
Pa was King.
I put on my black tie, walked off the plane into a thick mist, sped in a borrowed car to Balmoral. As I pulled through the front gates it was wetter, and pitch-dark, which made the white flashes from the dozens of cameras that much more blinding. Hunched against the cold, I hurried into the foyer.
Aunt Anne was there to greet me. I hugged her.
Where’s Pa and Willy? And Camilla? Gone to Birkhall, she said.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
There was an attack this morning in Paris. I haven’t read much about it since this morning but Charlie Hebdo are quite controversial and I saw some mention of them on Twitter as the story broke. I don’t think it’s all down to Harry and the 25 comment but it certainly hasn’t come at a good time.Oh no. I expected it at some point after Hazza’s revelations but…..
Oh not again. I haven’t seen much news with being at work.There was an attack this morning in Paris. I haven’t read much about it since this morning but Charlie Hebdo are quite controversial and I saw some mention of them on Twitter as the story broke. I don’t think it’s all down to Harry and the 25 comment but it certainly hasn’t come at a good time.
Hunkered down is definitely a “Meghanism”, I’m sure I’ve heard her say it beforeWE GOT WORD from Sara that The Sun was about to run a story saying The Duke and Duchess of Sussex were stepping away from their royal duties to spend more time in Canada.
A sad little man, the newspaper’s showbiz editor, was said to be the lead reporter on the story. Why him? Why, of all people, the showbiz guy?
Because lately he’d refashioned himself into some sort of quasi royal correspondent, largely on the strength of his secret relationship with one particularly close friend of Willy’s comms secretary—who fed him trivial (and mostly fake) gossip.
He was sure to get everything wrong, as he’d got everything wrong on his last big “exclusive,” Tiaragate.
He was equally sure to cram his story into the paper as fast as possible, because he was likely working in concert with the Palace, whose courtiers were determined to get ahead of us and spin the story.
We didn’t want that. We didn’t want anyone else breaking our news, twisting our news.
We’d have to rush out a statement.
I phoned Granny again, told her about The Sun, told her we might need to hurry out a statement.
She understood. She’d allow it, so long as it didn’t “add to speculation.”
I didn’t tell her exactly what our statement would say.
She didn’t ask.
But also I didn’t fully know yet. I gave her the gist, however, and mentioned some of the basic details I’d outlined in the memo Pa had demanded and which she’d seen. The wording needed to be precise. And it needed to be bland—calm.
We didn’t want to assign any blame, didn’t want to stoke the fires. Mustn’t add to speculation.
Formidable writing challenge.
We soon realized it wasn’t possible; we didn’t have time to get our statement out there first. We opened a bottle of wine.
Proceed, sad little man, proceed. He did.
The Sun posted his story late that night, and again on the morning’s front page.
Headline: WE’RE ORF!
As expected, the story depicted our departure as a rollicking, carefree, hedonistic tapping out, rather than a careful retreat and attempt at self-preservation.
It also included the telling detail that we’d offered to relinquish our Sussex titles.
There was only one document on earth in which that detail was mentioned—my private and confidential letter to my father. To which a shockingly, damningly small number of people had access. We hadn’t mentioned it to even our closest friends.
January 7, we worked some more on the draft, did a brief public appearance, met with our staff.
Finally, knowing more details were about to be leaked, on January 8 we hunkered down deep inside Buckingham Palace, in one of the main state rooms, with the two most senior members of our staff. I’d always liked that state room. Its pale walls, its sparkly crystal chandelier. But now it struck me as especially lovely and I thought: Has it always been so? Has it always looked so…royal?
In a corner of the state room was a grand wooden desk. We used this as our workspace. We took turns sitting there, typing on a laptop. We tried out different phrases. We wanted to say that we were taking a reduced role, stepping back but not down. Hard to get the exact wording, the right tone. Serious, but respectful.
Occasionally one of us would stretch out in a nearby armchair, or give the eyes a rest by gazing out of the two huge windows onto the gardens. When I needed a longer break I set off on a trek across the oceanic carpet. On the far side of the room, in the left corner, a small door led to the Belgian Suite, where Meg and I had once spent the night. In the near corner stood two tall wooden doors, the kind people think of when they hear the word “palace.” These led to a room in which I’d attended countless cocktail parties.
I thought back on those gatherings, on all the good times I’d had in this place.
I remembered: The room right next door was where the family always gathered for drinks before Christmas lunch. I went out into the hall.
There was a tall, beautiful Christmas tree, still brightly lit. I stood before it, reminiscing.
I removed two ornaments, soft little corgis, and brought them back to the staffers. One each. Souvenir of this strange mission, I said. They were touched. But a bit guilty. I assured them: No one will miss ’em. Words that seemed double-edged.
Late in the day, as we crawled closer to a final draft, the staffers began to feel anxious. They worried aloud if their involvement would be discovered. If so, what would it mean for their jobs?
But mostly they were excited. They felt that they were on the side of right; both had read every word of abuse in the press and on social media, going back months and months.
At six P.M. it was done.
We gathered around the laptop, read the draft one last time.
One staffer messaged the private secretaries of Granny, Pa and Willy, told them what was coming.
Willy’s guy replied immediately: This is going to go nuclear.
I knew, of course, that many Britons would be shocked, and saddened, which made my stomach churn. But in due course, once they knew the truth, I felt confident they’d understand.
One of the staffers said: Are we doing this?
Meg and I both said: Yes. There’s no other choice.
We sent the statement to our social media person.
Within a minute there it was, live, on our Instagram page, the only platform available to us.
We all hugged, wiped our eyes, and quickly gathered our things.
Meg and I walked out of the Palace and jumped into our car. As we sped towards Frogmore the news was already on the radio. Every channel. We picked one. Magic FM. Meg’s favorite. We listened to the presenter work himself into a very British lather.
We held hands and shared a smile with our bodyguards in the front seat. Then we all gazed silently out of the windows.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Hate to tell you Harry You weren’t a young coupleDays later, Meg and I welcomed the Bee into Frogmore, made him comfortable in our new sitting room, offered him a glass of rosé, gave a detailed presentation. He took meticulous notes, frequently putting a hand over his mouth and shaking his head. He’d seen the headlines, he said, but he’d not appreciated the full impact this might have on a young couple. This deluge of hate and lies was unprecedented in British history, he said. Disproportionate to anything I’ve ever seen.
Thank you, we said. Thank you for seeing it. He
BIB was probably trying not to laugh at them!
Can't they start in Montecito ffs? (Joke).Breaking news on gb news. Terror isis video urges fresh attacks on Western targets including London.
Never owned a car but had the unlimited, unrestricted use of luxury cars since learning to drive. Never carried money but could buy weed and coke whenever he wanted it? And you weren't made redundant, FFS, you chose to leave your employment.LATE AT NIGHT, WITH everyone asleep, I’d walk the house, checking the doors and windows.
Then I’d sit on the balcony or the edge of the garden and roll a joint.
The house looked down onto a valley, across a hillside thick with frogs. I’d listen to their late-night song, smell the flower-scented air.
The frogs, the smells, the trees, the big starry sky, it all brought me back to Botswana. But maybe it’s not just the flora and fauna, I thought.
Maybe it’s more the feeling of safety. Of life. We were able to get a lot of work done. And we had a lot of work to do.
We launched a foundation, I reconnected with my contacts in world conservation.
Things were getting under control…and then the press somehow learned we were at Tyler’s.
It had taken six weeks exactly, same as Canada.
Suddenly there were drones overhead, paps across the street. Paps across the valley. They cut the fence. We patched the fence. We stopped venturing outside. The garden was in full view of the paps. Next came the helicopters. Sadly, we were going to have to flee.
We’d need to find somewhere new, and soon, and that would mean paying for our own security.
I went back to my notebooks, started contacting security firms again.
Meg and I sat down to work out exactly how much security we could afford, and how much house.
Exactly then, while we were revising our budget, word came down: Pa was cutting me off.
I recognized the absurdity, a man in his mid-thirties being financially cut off by his father.
But Pa wasn’t merely my father, he was my boss, my banker, my comptroller, keeper of the purse strings throughout my adult life. Cutting me off therefore meant firing me, without redundancy pay, and casting me into the void after a lifetime of service. More, after a lifetime of rendering me otherwise unemployable. I felt fatted for the slaughter. Suckled like a veal calf.
I’d never asked to be financially dependent on Pa.
I’d been forced into this surreal state, this unending Truman Show in which I almost never carried money, never owned a car, never carried a house key, never once ordered anything online, never received a single box from Amazon, almost never traveled on the Underground. (Once, at Eton, on a theater trip.)
Sponge, the papers called me. But there’s a big difference between being a sponge and being prohibited from learning independence.
After decades of being rigorously and systematically infantilized, I was now abruptly abandoned, and mocked for being immature?
For not standing on my own two feet?
The question of how to pay for a home and security kept Meg and me awake at nights.
We could always spend some of my inheritance from Mummy, we said, but that felt like a last resort. We saw that money as belonging to Archie. And his sibling.
It was then that we learned Meg was pregnant.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
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