I WENT TO AUSTRALIA FOR a round of military exercises and while there I got word: Willy and Kate had welcomed their second child. Charlotte. I
was an uncle again, and very happy about it.
But, predictably, during one interview that day or the next a journalist questioned me about it as though I’d received a terminal diagnosis.
No, mate. Thrilled to bits.
But you’re further down the line of succession. Couldn’t be happier for Willy and Kate.
The journalist pressed: Fifth in line—hm. No longer even the Spare of the Spare.
I thought: First of all, it’s a good thing to be farther from the center of a volcano. Second, what kind of monster would think of himself and his place in the line of succession at such a time, rather than welcoming a new life into the world?
I’d once heard a courtier say that when you were fifth or sixth in line you were “only a plane crash away.” I couldn’t imagine living that way.
The journalist persisted. Didn’t the birth make me question my choices?
Choices?
Isn’t it time you settled down? Well, uh—
People are starting to compare you to Bridget Jones.
I thought: Are they really? Bridget Jones, ay? The journalist waited.
It’ll happen, I assured him, or her, I can’t recall the face, only the preposterous line of questioning. When, kind sir, do you plan to wive? It will happen when it happens, I said, the way you’d assure a naggy auntie.
The faceless journalist stared with abject…pity.
Will it, though?
