Good point. Wonder if Loyde is happy about this
Thank you.No, nothing! The timeline doesn't flow very well. It jumps about a bit. Lilibet is born then not mentioned again until the end where she was cuddling the Queen's shins!
If you search the book for 'Lilibet' that's the only time her actual name is mentioned.
OMG the ALARMING BALDNESSStephen Colbert asks "Would you like a cocktail before we begin?" and Harry enthusiastically responds
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Apologies if this has already been mentioned. This bit: In my life I’ve felt totally helpless only four times. In the back of the car while Mummy and Willy and I were being chased by paps. In the Apache above Afghanistan, unable to get clearance to do my duty. At Nott Cott when my pregnant wife was planning to take her life. And now.WE FOUND A PLACE.
Priced at a steep discount.
Just up the coast, outside Santa Barbara.
Lots of room, large gardens, a climbing frame—even a pond with koi carp.
The koi were stressed, the estate agent warned. So are we. We’ll all get along famously.
No, the agent explained, the koi need very particular care. You’ll have to hire a koi guy.
Uh-huh. And where does one find a koi guy? The agent wasn’t sure.
We laughed. First-world problems.
We took a tour. The place was a dream.
We asked Tyler to look at it too, and he said: Buy it.
So we pulled together a down-payment, took out a mortgage, and in July 2020 we moved in.
The move itself required only a couple of hours.
Everything we owned fitted into thirteen suitcases.
That first night we had a quiet drink in celebration, roasted a chicken, went to bed early.
All was well, we said.
And yet Meg was still under loads of stress. There was a pressing issue with her legal case against the tabloids. The Mail was up to its usual tricks.
Their first crack at offering a defense had been patently ridiculous, so now they were trying a new defense, which was even more ridiculous.
They were arguing that they’d printed Meg’s letter to her father because of a story in People magazine, which quoted a handful of Meg’s friends—anonymously.
The tabloids argued that Meg had orchestrated these quotes, used her friends as de facto spokespeople, and thus the Mail had every right to publish her letter to her father.
More, they now wanted the names of Meg’s previously anonymous friends read into the official court record—to destroy them.
Meg was determined to do everything in her power to prevent that.
She’d been staying up late, night after night, trying to work out how to save these people, and now, on our first morning in the new house, she reported abdominal pains.
And bleeding.
Then she collapsed to the floor.
We raced to the local hospital.
When the doctor walked into the room, I didn’t hear one word she said, I just watched her face, her body language.
I already knew.
We both did.
There had been so much blood.
Still, hearing the words was a blow.
Meg grabbed me, I held her, we both wept.
In my life I’ve felt totally helpless only four times. In the back of the car while Mummy and Willy and I were being chased by paps. In the Apache above Afghanistan, unable to get clearance to do my duty. At Nott Cott when my pregnant wife was planning to take her life. And now.
We left the hospital with our unborn child. A tiny package. We went to a place, a secret place only we knew. Under a spreading banyan tree, while Meg wept, I dug a hole with my hands and set the tiny package softly in the ground.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Reminds me of the professional association my husband is linked to. I met the CEO at a Xmas function and asked him if he had a big staff to manage. He changed the subject and my husband told me later he's given himself the title of Chief Executive Officer but he's the only one in the place. How the hell does that work? Probably much the same at Arsewipes.Oh the cringe...
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All of this - Sparry and his Ho's story - sounds like an episode of Crime Patrol - an Indian TV show about crime, based on true stories. They highlight social evils or the kind of evil that might be lurking in your neighbour's mind, or your uncle, or your mom, or you sister. And a similar show Laal Ishq about crimes people commit in the name of love. So a lot of stories about adultery, other cheating, abuse of all kinds, murders etc committed for people to achieve their goals.He writes only about night when they went to Royal Albert Hall, but later there is no mention of suicide, depresion or that she went to therapy after they fled.
So, what you're saying is Harry's flight time equated to Rain Man's drive time. "Up and down the driveway." ("I'm an excellent driver!")
I was induced and in hospital 3 daysYes, you are right. The other thing I was thinking is that in the excerpts from his book posted here, he mentions that she was overdue and so she was induced. Inductions are a planned, medical procedure . They can take some time. Pessaries may need to be administered and they need time to get to work. Patients need to be monitored. Drips may be needed as part of the process. Waters may need to be broken. This might all of happened for all I know, but he seems to give the impression that they just turned up at the hospital, she was induced and then she was straight into the bath. It just doesn't ring true.
So she had an epidural, didn’t tear at all even though it was an induced first birth, numbness gone, was up and walking, passed urine, had all the tests and the baby checked over and signed out within two hours?DORIA WAS STAYING with us, waiting for the baby to come.
Neither she nor Meg ever strayed far. None of us did. We all just sat around waiting, going for the occasional walk, looking at the cows.
When Meg was a week past her due date, the comms team and the Palace began pressuring me. When’s the baby coming? The press can’t wait forever, you know. Oh. The press is getting frustrated? Heaven forbid! Meg’s doctor had tried several homeopathic ways to get things moving, but our little visitor was just intent on staying put.
We got into a nondescript people-carrier and crept away from Frogmore without alerting any of the journalists stationed at the gates. It was the last sort of vehicle they suspected we’d be riding in. A short time later we arrived at the Portland Hospital and were spirited into a secret lift, then into a private room.
Our doctor walked in, talked it through with us, and said it was time to induce.
Meg was so calm. I was calm too.
But I saw two ways of enhancing my calm. One: Nando’s chicken. (Brought by our bodyguards.) Two: A canister of laughing gas beside Meg’s bed. I took several slow, penetrating hits. Meg, bouncing on a giant purple ball, a proven way of giving Nature a push, laughed and rolled her eyes. I took several more hits and now I was bouncing too.
When her contractions began to quicken, and deepen, a nurse came and tried to give some laughing gas to Meg. There was none left. The nurse looked at the tank, looked at me, and I could see the thought slowly dawning: Gracious, the husband’s had it all.
Sorry, I said meekly.
Meg laughed, the nurse had to laugh, and quickly changed the canister.
Meg climbed into a bath, I turned on soothing music.
In our overnight bag we had the same electric candles I’d arranged in the garden the night I proposed. Now I placed them around the hospital room. I also set a framed photo of my mother on a little table. Meg’s idea.
Time passed. Hour melted into hour. Minimal dilation. Meg was doing a lot of deep breathing for pain.
Then the deep breathing stopped working.
She was in so much pain that she needed an epidural. The anesthetist hurried in.
Off went the music, on went the lights. Whoa. Vibe change. He gave her an injection at the base of her spine. Still the pain didn’t let up. The medicine apparently wasn’t getting where it needed to go. He came back, did it again. Now things both quietened and accelerated.
Her doctor came back two hours later, slipped both hands into a pair of rubber gloves.
This is it, everybody. I stationed myself at the head of the bed, holding Meg’s hand, encouraging her.
Push, my love. Breathe.
The doctor gave Meg a small hand mirror.
I tried not to look, but I had to.
I glanced, saw a reflection of the baby’s head emerging. Stuck. Tangled. Oh, no, please, no.
The doctor looked up, her mouth set in a particular way. Things were getting serious.
I said to Meg: My love, I need you to push. I didn’t tell her why. I didn’t tell her about the cord, didn’t tell her about the likelihood of an emergency C-section.
I just said: Give me everything you’ve got. And she did.
I saw the little face, the tiny neck and chest and arms, wriggling, writhing. Life, life—amazing! I thought, Wow, it really all begins with a struggle for freedom. A nurse swept the baby into a towel and placed him on Meg’s chest and we both cried to see him, meet him. A healthy little boy, and he was here. Our ayurvedic doctor had advised us that, in the first minute of life, a baby absorbs everything said to them. So whisper to the baby, tell the baby your wish for him, your love. Tell. We told.
I don’t remember phoning anyone, texting them. I remember watching the nurses run tests on my hour-old son, and then we were out of there. Into the lift, into the underground car park, into the people-carrier, and gone.
Within two hours of our son being born we were back at Frogmore.
After a few hours I was standing outside the stables at Windsor, telling the world: It’s a boy.
Days later we announced the name to the world. Archie.
The papers were incensed. They said we’d pulled a fast one on them. Indeed we had. They felt that, in doing so, we’d been…bad partners?
Astonishing. Did they still think of us as partners? Did they really expect special consideration, preferential treatment—given how they’d treated us these last three years? And then they showed the world what kind of “partners” they really were. A BBC radio presenter posted a photo on his social media—a man and a woman holding hands with a chimpanzee. The caption read: Royal baby leaves hospital.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
He didnt get the clearance to shoot sometimes, because if i understood you first had to verify that civilians werent present.Apologies if this has already been mentioned. This bit: In my life I’ve felt totally helpless only four times. In the back of the car while Mummy and Willy and I were being chased by paps. In the Apache above Afghanistan, unable to get clearance to do my duty. At Nott Cott when my pregnant wife was planning to take her life. And now.
He felt HELPLESS in the Apache helicopter?? The same type of helicopter he used to kill 25 Afghans who were completely helpless and at his mercy when he opened fire on them and now refers to them as "chess pieces." This has made me so angry to the point where I nearly burst into tears (it's a super sensitive topic for me; more so after August 2021). How dare he say something like that when he was in a position of power and immense responsibility out there. Stupid stupid man!!
That part was in relation to Lady Muck’s post. She had posted the Stephen Colbert video where Harry talked about the 25 comment.Being a yacht girl is a security risk?? I mean, I guess it could be, but not on the Taliban scale surely?
Oh my God, they BOTH asked for clarity and guidance. Another alignment of the stars! And he probably went around the hedge to roll a joint.I HELPED MEG INTO THE BOAT. It wobbled, but I quick-stepped to the middle, got it righted in time.
As she found a seat in the stern, I took up the oars. They didn’t work. We’re stuck. The thick mud of the shallows had us in its grip.
Uncle Charles came down to the water’s edge, gave us a little shove. We waved to him, and to my two aunts.
Bye. See you in a bit.
Gliding across the pond, I gazed around at Althorp’s rolling fields and ancient trees, the thousands of green acres where my mother grew up, and where, though things weren’t perfect, she’d known some peace.
Minutes later we reached the island and gingerly stepped onto the shore.
I led Meg up the path, around a hedge, through the labyrinth. There it was, looming: the grayish white oval stone.
No visit to this place was ever easy, but this one… Twenty-fifth anniversary. And Meg’s first time. At long last I was bringing the girl of my dreams home to meet mum.
We hesitated, hugging, and then I went first. I placed flowers on the grave.
Meg gave me a moment, and I spoke to my mother in my head, told her I missed her, asked her for guidance and clarity.
Feeling that Meg might also want a moment, I went around the hedge, scanned the pond.
When I came back, Meg was kneeling, eyes shut, palms against the stone. I asked, as we walked back to the boat, what she’d prayed for. Clarity, she said. And guidance.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
THE WINDOW IS DIRTYDrivel excerpt (thanks Anna2020):
She reminded me in a whisper, as if someone might be listening, that she’d taken a handwriting class in high school, and as a result she’d always had excellent penmanship. People complimented her. She’d even used this skill at university to earn spare money. Nights, weekends, she’d inscribed wedding and birthday-party invitations, to pay the rent. Now people were trying to say that this was some kind of window into her soul? And the window was dirty?
Meg wanted to sue. Me too. Rather, we both felt we had no choice. If we didn’t sue over this, we said, what kind of signal would that be sending? To the press? To the world? So we conferred again with the Palace lawyer. We were given a runaround.
I reached out to Pa and Willy. They’d both sued the press in the past over invasions and lies.
Pa sued over so-called Black Spider Letters, his memos to government officials. Willy sued over topless photos of Kate. But both vehemently opposed the idea of Meg and me taking any legal action.
So…. Charles sues over Govt matters, William sues over invasive nude photos, and Harry wants to sue over TW’s handwriting!!!!
because recollections may vary.Because he's answering to stuff he's been criticised about on the internet.
Only getting to catch up now can't believe I'll expected to work would this is going on. You don't get 2 epidurals you get one not at the base of your spine either - she was in the bath then cut she's in the bed. Who the f***k has arms that can reach down to their Regina Phelange to hold a mirror while they are going through the final stages of labour- the biggest pushes. How can he see what way the baby is from her hand mirror? WTF a photo of his mother on a table in the delivery suite?sick or what. home 2 hours after an epidural bollocks 6 hrs at least. If they were so hounded by the press surely there is no way they could have went unseenDORIA WAS STAYING with us, waiting for the baby to come.
Neither she nor Meg ever strayed far. None of us did. We all just sat around waiting, going for the occasional walk, looking at the cows.
When Meg was a week past her due date, the comms team and the Palace began pressuring me. When’s the baby coming? The press can’t wait forever, you know. Oh. The press is getting frustrated? Heaven forbid! Meg’s doctor had tried several homeopathic ways to get things moving, but our little visitor was just intent on staying put.
We got into a nondescript people-carrier and crept away from Frogmore without alerting any of the journalists stationed at the gates. It was the last sort of vehicle they suspected we’d be riding in. A short time later we arrived at the Portland Hospital and were spirited into a secret lift, then into a private room.
Our doctor walked in, talked it through with us, and said it was time to induce.
Meg was so calm. I was calm too.
But I saw two ways of enhancing my calm. One: Nando’s chicken. (Brought by our bodyguards.) Two: A canister of laughing gas beside Meg’s bed. I took several slow, penetrating hits. Meg, bouncing on a giant purple ball, a proven way of giving Nature a push, laughed and rolled her eyes. I took several more hits and now I was bouncing too.
When her contractions began to quicken, and deepen, a nurse came and tried to give some laughing gas to Meg. There was none left. The nurse looked at the tank, looked at me, and I could see the thought slowly dawning: Gracious, the husband’s had it all.
Sorry, I said meekly.
Meg laughed, the nurse had to laugh, and quickly changed the canister.
Meg climbed into a bath, I turned on soothing music.
In our overnight bag we had the same electric candles I’d arranged in the garden the night I proposed. Now I placed them around the hospital room. I also set a framed photo of my mother on a little table. Meg’s idea.
Time passed. Hour melted into hour. Minimal dilation. Meg was doing a lot of deep breathing for pain.
Then the deep breathing stopped working.
She was in so much pain that she needed an epidural. The anesthetist hurried in.
Off went the music, on went the lights. Whoa. Vibe change. He gave her an injection at the base of her spine. Still the pain didn’t let up. The medicine apparently wasn’t getting where it needed to go. He came back, did it again. Now things both quietened and accelerated.
Her doctor came back two hours later, slipped both hands into a pair of rubber gloves.
This is it, everybody. I stationed myself at the head of the bed, holding Meg’s hand, encouraging her.
Push, my love. Breathe.
The doctor gave Meg a small hand mirror.
I tried not to look, but I had to.
I glanced, saw a reflection of the baby’s head emerging. Stuck. Tangled. Oh, no, please, no.
The doctor looked up, her mouth set in a particular way. Things were getting serious.
I said to Meg: My love, I need you to push. I didn’t tell her why. I didn’t tell her about the cord, didn’t tell her about the likelihood of an emergency C-section.
I just said: Give me everything you’ve got. And she did.
I saw the little face, the tiny neck and chest and arms, wriggling, writhing. Life, life—amazing! I thought, Wow, it really all begins with a struggle for freedom. A nurse swept the baby into a towel and placed him on Meg’s chest and we both cried to see him, meet him. A healthy little boy, and he was here. Our ayurvedic doctor had advised us that, in the first minute of life, a baby absorbs everything said to them. So whisper to the baby, tell the baby your wish for him, your love. Tell. We told.
I don’t remember phoning anyone, texting them. I remember watching the nurses run tests on my hour-old son, and then we were out of there. Into the lift, into the underground car park, into the people-carrier, and gone.
Within two hours of our son being born we were back at Frogmore.
After a few hours I was standing outside the stables at Windsor, telling the world: It’s a boy.
Days later we announced the name to the world. Archie.
The papers were incensed. They said we’d pulled a fast one on them. Indeed we had. They felt that, in doing so, we’d been…bad partners?
Astonishing. Did they still think of us as partners? Did they really expect special consideration, preferential treatment—given how they’d treated us these last three years? And then they showed the world what kind of “partners” they really were. A BBC radio presenter posted a photo on his social media—a man and a woman holding hands with a chimpanzee. The caption read: Royal baby leaves hospital.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
And her whiskers (in cat pic)!So Harry, what first attracted you to Meghan?
It was her shiny nose, her long tongue, her bright eyes....
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