Yeah when they legged it out the backdoor with her baby. Wonder did they bring a suitcase full of cash when they went to collect him.Nail, Head >>>> Whack!!
The poor surrogate was probably still in recovery.
Are you Okay? On behalf of everyone on this thread Thank you for your serviceThank you to all the professionals, medical experts, and coaches for keeping me physically and mentally strong over the years.
Dr. Lesley Parkinson,
Dr. Ben Carraway and Kevin Lidlow, and also Ross Barr, Jessie Blum, Dr. Kevin English, Winston Squire, Esther Lee, John Amaral, and Peter Charles.
Also Kasey, Eric Goodman, and the two Petes.
Special thanks to my U.K. therapist for helping unravel years of unresolved trauma.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex. Spare
Finally THE END
Thanks for all of your hard work, there's no way I would buy or read that drivel, but having it in small bite size chunks is awesome. Now I've been reading through them and as with everyone else, have been gobsmacked, angry, sick and mostly having a right good laugh. This paragraph though has actually stopped me in my tracks, the magical lock of hair and singing to the seals, yep totally ott, weird and simultaneously hilarious, but to imply that Archie, at under 1 year old, somehow connected to the painting with a very tenuous link to the saintly Diana, is just...well...ooft..no words.This is the weirdest part of the book for me
They are in Tyler Perry house.
In the front hall was a painting he (Archie) found especially interesting.
He started every day locked on to it. A scene from ancient Rome. We asked each other why. No clue.
Not long after those first steps Archie went marching up to his favorite painting in the front hall.
He stared at it, made a gurgle of recognition. Meg leaned in for a closer look.
She noticed, for the first time, a nameplate on the frame.
Goddess of the hunt. Diana.
Is that allSomone on the Royal family thread asked how many times did he said MUMMY in his book?
And i just had to look.
He mentioned MUMMY 203 times
MUM 31 times
I‘m waiting for her book just to hear everyone sayWhen Smegz does her book, I bet she will say there were 3 of us in this marriage. Her, H and Diana's ghost
The Queen was well known for not liking babies and toddlers, what else was she supposed to say?So granny said to Harry his children are sweet children, and Harrry took that and twisted it in his mind and tells the world, the queen really thought they would have been more American and boisterous? And she can’t even defend herself. Sounds to me a loving great grandmother calling her great grandchild sweet, how can he make that into something bad
When Smegz does her book, I bet she will say there were 3 of us in this marriage. Her, H and Diana's ghost
That is a man. My love. That is not a spare. Oh my godIT WAS SLIGHTLY EASIER this time.
Maybe because we were an ocean away from the old chaos and stress.
When the big day came we were both surer, calmer—steadier.
What bliss, we said, not having to worry about timing, protocols, journalists at the front gate.
We drove calmly, sanely to the hospital, where our bodyguards once again fed us. This time they brought burgers and fries from In-N-Out. And fajitas from a local Mexican restaurant for Meg. We ate and ate and then did the Baby Mama dance around the hospital room.
Nothing but joy and love in that room.
Still, after many hours Meg asked the doctor: When?
Soon. We’re close.
This time I didn’t touch the laughing gas. (Because there was none.)
I was fully present. I was with Meg through every push. When the doctor said it was a matter of minutes, I told Meg that I wanted mine to be the first face our little girl saw. We knew we were having a daughter.
Meg nodded, squeezed my hand. I went and stood beside the doctor.
We both crouched. As if about to pray.
The doctor called out: The head is crowning. Crowning, I thought. Incredible.
The skin was blue. I worried the baby wasn’t getting enough air. Is she choking?
I looked at Meg. One more push, my love! We’re so close.
Here, here, here, the doctor said, guiding my hands, right here.
A scream, then a moment of pure liquid silence.
It wasn’t, as sometimes happens, that past and future were suddenly one.
It was that the past didn’t matter, and the future didn’t exist.
There was only this intense present, and then the doctor turned to me and shouted: Now!
I slid my hands under the tiny back and neck. Gently, but firmly, as I’d seen in films, I pulled our precious daughter from that world into this, and cradled her just a moment, trying to smile at her, to see her, but honestly, I couldn’t see anything.
I wanted to say: Hello.
I wanted to say: Where have you come from?
I wanted to say: Is it better there?
Is it peaceful? Are you frightened? Don’t be, don’t be, all will be well. I’ll keep you safe.
I surrendered her to Meg. Skin to skin, the nurse said.
Later, after we’d brought her home, after we’d settled into all the new rhythms of a family of four, Meg and I were skin to skin and she said: I’ve never been more in love with you than in that moment.
Really?
Really.
She jotted some thoughts in a kind of journal. Which she shared.
-I read them as a love poem. I read them as a testament, a renewal of our vows. I read them as a citation, a remembrance, a proclamation. I read them as a decree.
She said: That was everything.
She said: That is a man. My love.
She said: That is not a Spare.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Why was he allowed a therapist but smeg wasnt?WILLY ASKED FOR a meeting. He wanted to talk about everything, the whole rolling catastrophe.
Just him and me, he said. As it happened, Meg was out of town, visiting girlfriends, so his timing was perfect. I invited him over.
An hour later he walked into Nott Cott, where he hadn’t been since Meg first moved in. He looked piping hot. It was early evening.
I offered him a drink, asked about his family.
Everyone good.
He didn’t ask about mine. He just went all in. Chips to the center of the table. Meg’s difficult, he said.
Oh, really?
She’s rude. She’s abrasive. She’s alienated half the staff.
Not the first time he’d parroted the press narrative. Duchess Difficult, all that bullshit. Rumors, lies from his team, tabloid rubbish, and I told him so—again.
Told him I expected better from my older brother. I was shocked to see that this actually pissed him off. Had he come here expecting something different? Did he think I’d agree that my bride was a monster? I
told him to step back, take a breath, really ask himself: Wasn’t Meg his sister-in-law? Wouldn’t this institution be toxic for any newcomer? Worst-case scenario, if his sister-in-law was having trouble adjusting to a new office, a new family, a new country, a new culture, couldn’t he see his way clear to cutting her some slack? Couldn’t you just be there for her? Help her?
He had no interest in a debate. He’d come to lay down the law. He wanted me to agree that Meg was wrong and then agree to do something about it. Like what? Scold her? Fire her? Divorce her? I didn’t know.
But Willy didn’t know either, he wasn’t rational. Every time I tried to slow him down, point out the illogic of what he was saying, he got louder. We were soon talking over each other, both of us shouting. Among all the different, riotous emotions coursing through my brother that afternoon, one really jumped out at me. He seemed aggrieved. He seemed put upon that I wasn’t meekly obeying him, that I was being so impertinent as to deny him, or defy him, to refute his knowledge, which came from his trusted aides.
There was a script here and I had the audacity not to be following it.
He was in full Heir mode, and couldn’t fathom why I wasn’t dutifully playing the role of the Spare.
I was sitting on the sofa, he was standing over me.
I remember saying: You need to hear me out, Willy.
He wouldn’t. He simply would not listen.
To be fair, he felt the same about me.
He called me names. All kinds of names. He said I refused to take responsibility for what was happening. He said I didn’t care about my office and the people who worked for me. Willy, give me one example of—
He cut me off, said he was trying to help me.
Are you serious? Help me? Sorry—is that what you call this? Helping me?
For some reason, that really set him off. He stepped towards me, swearing. To that point I’d been feeling uncomfortable, but now I felt a bit scared. I stood, brushed past him, went out to the kitchen, to the sink.
He was right on my heels, berating me, shouting. I poured a glass of water for myself, and one for him as well. I handed it to him. I don’t think he took a sip.
Willy, I can’t speak to you when you’re like this.
He set down the water, called me another name, then came at me. It all happened so fast. So very fast. He grabbed me by the collar, ripping my necklace, and he knocked me to the floor. I landed on the dogs’ bowl, which cracked under my back, the pieces cutting into me. I lay there for a moment, dazed, then got to my feet and told him to get out.
Come on, hit me! You’ll feel better if you hit me!
Do what?
Come on, we always used to fight. You’ll feel better if you hit me.
No, only you’ll feel better if I hit you.
Please…just leave.
He left the kitchen, but he didn’t leave Nott Cott. He was in the sitting room, I could tell. I stayed in the kitchen. Two minutes passed, two long minutes. He came back looking regretful and apologized. He walked to the front door. This time I followed. Before leaving he turned and called back: You don’t need to tell Meg about this.
You mean that you attacked me?
I didn’t attack you, Harold.
Fine. I won’t tell her.
Good, thank you.
He left. I looked at the phone. A promise is a promise, I told myself, so I couldn’t call my wife, much as I wanted to. But I needed to talk to someone.
So I rang my therapist. Thank God she answered. I apologized for the intrusion, told her I didn’t know who else to call. I told her I’d had a fight with Willy, he’d knocked me to the floor. I looked down and told her that my shirt was ripped, my necklace was broken. We’d had a million physical fights in our lives, I told her. As boys we’d done nothing but fight. But this felt different. The therapist told me to take deep breaths. She asked me to describe the scene several times. Each time I did it seemed more like a bad dream. And made me a bit calmer. I told her: I’m proud of myself. Proud, Harry? Why’s that? I didn’t hit him back. I stayed true to my word, didn’t tell Meg. But not long after she returned from her trip, she saw me coming out of the shower and gasped. Haz, what are those scrapes and bruises on your back? I couldn’t lie to her. She wasn’t that surprised, and she wasn’t at all angry. She was terribly sad.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Sorry completely off topic but I just got excited when I saw your nameIf the scandalous stories about to break are true, then maybe the “predictions” from “fortune tellers” will come true. Maybe it will all prove too much for KC and he will only rule for 5 years. Perhaps the throne won’t go to Wills and the “unexpected heir” will be Edward ? We’ve seen an awful lot of Sophie since the Queen died, and she did seem to be close to The Queen. Doesn’t appear to be much scandal in that branch of the family.
If I was the RF then I’d want as far away from this mess as possible.
Ha,other people have commented on it too. I’ll probably need a catheter if they tour again !Sorry completely off topic but I just got excited when I saw your name
I cannot begin to tell you how much my whole body cringes when any human over the age of 6 still calls their parents mummy and daddy. If Harold calls Diana mummy once more I shall throw up. Everytime he calls her mummy, I have visions of him as an adult wearing just a nappy and sucking on his thumb or a dummy. Mummy sounds so infantile, creepy and fetishy. Harold, Diana was your mum or your mother, you are an adult, upgrade your vocabulary!
What 4 year old has a fishing net?For days and days we couldn’t stop hugging the children, couldn’t let them out of our sight—though I also couldn’t stop picturing them with Granny. The final visit. Archie making deep, chivalrous bows, his baby sister Lilibet cuddling the monarch’s shins.
Sweetest children, Granny said, sounding bemused. S
he’d expected them to be a bit more…American, I think? Meaning, in her mind, more rambunctious.
Now, while overjoyed to be home again, doing drop-offs again, reading Giraffes Can’t Dance again, I couldn’t stop…remembering.
Day and night, images flitted through my mind. Standing before her during my passing-out parade, shoulders thrown back, catching her half smile. Stationed beside her on the balcony, saying something that caught her off guard and made her, despite the solemnity of the occasion, laugh out loud. Leaning into her ear, so many times, smelling her perfume as I whispered a joke.
Kissing both cheeks at one public event, just recently, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder, feeling how frail she was becoming.
Making a silly video for the first Invictus Games, discovering that she was a natural comedienne.
People around the world howled, and said they’d never suspected she possessed such a wicked sense of humor—but she did, she always did!
That was one of our little secrets.
In fact, in every photo of us, whenever we’re exchanging a glance, making solid eye contact, it’s clear: We had secrets. Special relationship, that’s what they said about us, and now I couldn’t stop thinking about the specialness that would no longer be.
The visits that wouldn’t take place.
Ah well, I told myself, that’s just the deal, isn’t it?
That’s life.
Still, as with so many partings, I just wished there’d been…one more goodbye.
Soon after our return, a hummingbird got into the house. I had a devil of a time guiding it out, and the thought occurred that maybe we should start shutting the doors, despite those heavenly ocean breezes.
Then a mate said: Could be a sign, you know?
Some cultures see hummingbirds as spirits, he said. Visitors, as it were. Aztecs thought them reincarnated warriors. Spanish explorers called them “resurrection birds.”
You don’t say? I did some reading and learned that not only are hummingbirds visitors, they’re voyagers.
The lightest birds on the planet, and the fastest, they travel vast distances—from Mexican winter homes to Alaskan nesting grounds.
Whenever you see a hummingbird, what you’re actually seeing is a tiny, glittering Odysseus.
So, naturally, when this hummingbird arrived, and swooped around our kitchen, and flitted through the sacred airspace we call Lili Land, where we’ve set the baby’s playpen with all her toys and stuffed animals, I thought hopefully, greedily, foolishly:
Is our house a detour—or a destination?
For half a second I was tempted to let the hummingbird be. Let it stay.
But no.
Gently I used Archie’s fishing net to scoop it from the ceiling, carry it outside.
Its legs felt like eyelashes, its wings like flower petals.
With cupped palms I set the hummingbird gently on a wall in the sun.
Goodbye, my friend.
But it just lay there.
Motionless.
No, I thought.
No, not that. Come on, come on.
You’re free. Fly away.
And then, against all odds, and all expectations, that wonderful, magical little creature bestirred itself, and did just that.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
It's brilliant .Oh dear.
Harry says his memory 'curates as it sees fit' in staggering admission
The Prince suggested his memory was "no longer recording things quite as it once did" as a "defence mechanism".www.express.co.uk
We use cookies and similar technologies for the following purposes:
Do you accept cookies and these technologies?
We use cookies and similar technologies for the following purposes:
Do you accept cookies and these technologies?