The media gushfest over the stylishness of Princesses Mary-Marie-Mette-Marit-Letizia-Victoria-Fugpunzel-Maxima is really quite disconcerting. I don't know what the fuss is about. It's not that hard to brush your hair, tie it back and pop on an Oscar de la Renta gown. Sleek elegance has never been so bland.
In my day it took real chutzpah (or bulimia) to be part of the female royalty. It wasn't enough to just feel the pea right through the twenty mattresses and the twenty eider-down beds. Back then, duchesses, not bizarro pop stars were called Fergie. One had to work at creating an appropriately regal look. The current lot seem like just a bunch of amateurs when compared to the Fergie of yesteryear, a true royal who:
mixed colours, and mixed them well and good
handled errant gusts of wind with aplomb
empathised with the sick children in hospitals she visited by wearing a frockful of measles
wore raccoon tails long before Jennifer Lopez lined her ponchos with them to spite PETA
knew that the first step to becoming a published children's author was dressing like Olivia the Pig
quit smoking by exclusively wearing flammable rayon acetate nightgowns for an extended period of time
took it upon herself to go looking for her sheep when they went missing
came prepared at public functions with an inflatable raft in case of water emergencies
attended fancy dress parties where the invite said "come dress as your favourite kiosk snack"