I know by writing this, I am flirting with ridicule but… I’m pretty sure I’m meant to marry Prince Harry.
No, it’s not a joke. He seems dapper and sweet, I find his ginger mop utterly adorable and duh, he’s a PRINCE!
There’s just one thing, I don’t know how I can meet him so he can fall madly in love with me and believe me, I’ve tried.
Like many 20-something Aussies I once found myself sharing a dodgy three bedroom flat in South West London with seven other people. And after a while of getting lost on the tube – mucking up the district line is very easy – and figuring out my Tesco’s from my Waitrose, I was getting comfortable in the grey city.
‘Yes, I could live here,’ I thought.
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Slowly I started to build my life in London and eventually I stumbled on a pastime that is native to Mother England; Prince Harry hunting.
My girlfriends and I would jokingly – but kinda seriously – head out on the town with the accidental-on-purpose effort of meeting the third-in-line to the throne (George wasn’t born yet).
In those days we were all like, ‘recession shussmession!’ We were poor, the whole bloody world was, but that wasn’t going to stop me and my girl gang from buying way too many over-priced cocktails and fancy/yucky whiskeys in a bid to rub shoulders with every British wannabe and bag Harry.
So in the summer of 2010 the hunt was on.
We made friends with the bartenders and doormen and security guards and even a few photographers who were willing to give us a bell if they thought they knew which of the Ginger Prince’s favourite watering holes he was due to hit next.
After a while we built up such an marvellous network semi-cryptic messages would come in thick at fast from our army of spies who were offering tip-offs on the whereabouts of our beau.
“Very VERY VIP event tonight at XXXX” – the texts would fly in and we knew that was code for Haz.
Wednesdays, we were told, were the night of choice for Harry’s set to cut loose because there was less of a bridge and tunnel crowd flocking to the swanky boroughs where the blue-blooded elite liked to hang. Also, you can party on a school night when you are a Prince without a 9-5.
We would head to all of Harry’s favourite haunts, Whisky Mist or Mahiki in Mayfair or the kitsch alpine retreat of Bodo Schloss located smack-bang in the middle of swanky Kensington.
While my crew was centred around having a good time with some not so subtle stalking on the side, we decided we weren’t anything like those official Harry Hunters who frequented the same bars with similar ambitions to ours – no, no they were deranged.
I had read about these fans – usually Americans – who would fly in from all over the world to try and track down the royals. They were hell bent on trying to get their happily ever after with Harry and seemed like the classless kind that would try and kiss him while he was kindly posing for a picture with them. No, that was not us – Harry would actually like us and we would be friends, right?
For my clique, our Harry hunting game was strong and we came really close a few times but alas, he proved to be our white whale.
At the end of the day all our efforts seemed to get us were some snide commiserations from a cocktail waitress – “Oh, Harry just left love,” – and a steep bill we could hardly afford.
After a while I figured were wildly off the scent and starting to look a little, well, desperate. I quit the game.
Now, as I see my regal crush grow into this amazing man who has become just as charitable as his mother, hugging sick kids with sincerity and playing polo with valour, I can’t help but go back and get lost in those daydreams where Harry puts a tiara on my head, kisses the side of my face and says in a perfectly plummy accent; ‘You’re the one.’
But until my destined run in with the Prince I hope my home-girl Kate, the Duchess of Cambridge has rostered Uncle Harry on so much George and Charlotte babysitting duty he can’t find the time to get a date.
The author of this article still believes there is a possibility that they will end up with Prince Harry and has chosen to remain anonymous to avoid an awkward pre-royal wedding chat from Her Majesty, the Queen. The Weekly didn’t have the heart to tell them they were dreaming.
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