'Once upon a time' is always a good start to a story. Apparently, it has been a stock phrase since around 1380. Usually, said stories end with 'and they lived happily ever after'.
Fairytales do always end in such an ideal manner. Good triumphs over evil, the baddy dies or gets locked away for a thousand years, the princes and princesses get married, a few fairies fly around and wave their magic wands and without fail, a moral flutters around with them.
Princesses are always very beautiful, have long golden hair* and sit in a tower waiting for a handsome prince (who appears to have come straight out of a l'Oreal advert) to come charging along on his noble white steed and rescue her, all the while swishing his glossy mane.**
If 'generic princess' had any of her wits about her, she might use her common sense and intelligence to get out of the tower herself. Quite frankly, she doesn't have much else to do and, some might say, she may be single-handedly responsible for causing inequality in the workplace. If a woman can't use her initiative to get out of a tower, what chance does she have in the City with excel spreadsheets and financial analysis and making cups of coffee and whatever else these banky types do?***
If 'generic prince' had any of his wits about him, he would get a hair cut, get a car with leather interiors (then 'generic princess' would have to wait less time, it would be far more comfortable on the journey homeward and furthermore, her hair wouldn't go frizzy in the rain), pop into the nearest clothes shop, dump his armour, (heavy, sweaty and likely to cause body odour) and get the good old polo-shirt, belt, jeans combo on.****
The baddies are always pot-ugly. Warts, pointy noses, cackles, naff clothes (that even C&A would have rejected) and no doubt a dollop of halitosis. My advice to 'generic baddy' would be to get an appointment at the orthodontist and/or dental hygienist, nip into Topshop for something in vogue on the high street, nip into Boots for some acne cream and maybe get some highlights and/or friends. Either that, or simply stop being a baddy, because magically when you do that, you become beautiful.
I am a bit traditional. I would very much like a prince on a cracking stallion (read big fuck-off swish car) to sweep me off my feet (FYI I'm a size 5, just in case I lose my glass slipper on your stairs. I'd really hate for you to trawl across every house in London to find me*****), rescue me from a tower (um..the office?) and behave in an utterly chivalrous and gentleman-like manner (but not too goody-two-shoes: feel free to jump into the lake on a whim a la Mr Darcy). Said gentleman must open the door for me as a natural reflex, bestow jewels upon me, shower me with compliments (but look away to spare my blushes) and, last but not least, kiss my hand upon meeting me. He may also bow if he wishes. At the same time, I am also adamant that I will have a career and independence. Demanding? Moi?
Chivalry is dead. A phrase I hear a lot these days.
I assure you, it is not.
Only recently, a heavily tattooed man with a ginger beard, ear plugs, a satchel and a tall, skinny, extra shot, creme-brulee macchiato gave up his seat for me on the tube. Valiant and thoroughly unnecessary. As a young whipper-snapper who is neither pregnant, old or disabled, I had no more need for the chair than he did.
The conclusion is this: chivalry is well and truly alive on London transport.
I can safely say, this blog entry is absolutely random and irrelevant. I'm not sure what possessed me to write it. I better end it quickly and more importantly, conclusively...
And they lived happily ever after.******
*Although maybe that's artistic license and it's actually dirty blonde/rich mouse.
**The prince, not the horse. Although let us not discriminate. I don't doubt that the horse also has a very nice mane.
***I doubt the latter. That's probably a job for the intern.
****NB always a winner with me.
*****Bit odd that Cinderella story. Are we seriously meant to believe that nobody else in the Kingdom had the same size feet as her?
******Absolutely no idea who did. Again, decidedly irrelevant. I'll leave you to muse upon that. Just pretty damned good ending to a story.
Fairytales do always end in such an ideal manner. Good triumphs over evil, the baddy dies or gets locked away for a thousand years, the princes and princesses get married, a few fairies fly around and wave their magic wands and without fail, a moral flutters around with them.
Princesses are always very beautiful, have long golden hair* and sit in a tower waiting for a handsome prince (who appears to have come straight out of a l'Oreal advert) to come charging along on his noble white steed and rescue her, all the while swishing his glossy mane.**
If 'generic princess' had any of her wits about her, she might use her common sense and intelligence to get out of the tower herself. Quite frankly, she doesn't have much else to do and, some might say, she may be single-handedly responsible for causing inequality in the workplace. If a woman can't use her initiative to get out of a tower, what chance does she have in the City with excel spreadsheets and financial analysis and making cups of coffee and whatever else these banky types do?***
If 'generic prince' had any of his wits about him, he would get a hair cut, get a car with leather interiors (then 'generic princess' would have to wait less time, it would be far more comfortable on the journey homeward and furthermore, her hair wouldn't go frizzy in the rain), pop into the nearest clothes shop, dump his armour, (heavy, sweaty and likely to cause body odour) and get the good old polo-shirt, belt, jeans combo on.****
The baddies are always pot-ugly. Warts, pointy noses, cackles, naff clothes (that even C&A would have rejected) and no doubt a dollop of halitosis. My advice to 'generic baddy' would be to get an appointment at the orthodontist and/or dental hygienist, nip into Topshop for something in vogue on the high street, nip into Boots for some acne cream and maybe get some highlights and/or friends. Either that, or simply stop being a baddy, because magically when you do that, you become beautiful.
I am a bit traditional. I would very much like a prince on a cracking stallion (read big fuck-off swish car) to sweep me off my feet (FYI I'm a size 5, just in case I lose my glass slipper on your stairs. I'd really hate for you to trawl across every house in London to find me*****), rescue me from a tower (um..the office?) and behave in an utterly chivalrous and gentleman-like manner (but not too goody-two-shoes: feel free to jump into the lake on a whim a la Mr Darcy). Said gentleman must open the door for me as a natural reflex, bestow jewels upon me, shower me with compliments (but look away to spare my blushes) and, last but not least, kiss my hand upon meeting me. He may also bow if he wishes. At the same time, I am also adamant that I will have a career and independence. Demanding? Moi?
Chivalry is dead. A phrase I hear a lot these days.
I assure you, it is not.
Only recently, a heavily tattooed man with a ginger beard, ear plugs, a satchel and a tall, skinny, extra shot, creme-brulee macchiato gave up his seat for me on the tube. Valiant and thoroughly unnecessary. As a young whipper-snapper who is neither pregnant, old or disabled, I had no more need for the chair than he did.
The conclusion is this: chivalry is well and truly alive on London transport.
I can safely say, this blog entry is absolutely random and irrelevant. I'm not sure what possessed me to write it. I better end it quickly and more importantly, conclusively...
And they lived happily ever after.******
*Although maybe that's artistic license and it's actually dirty blonde/rich mouse.
**The prince, not the horse. Although let us not discriminate. I don't doubt that the horse also has a very nice mane.
***I doubt the latter. That's probably a job for the intern.
****NB always a winner with me.
*****Bit odd that Cinderella story. Are we seriously meant to believe that nobody else in the Kingdom had the same size feet as her?
******Absolutely no idea who did. Again, decidedly irrelevant. I'll leave you to muse upon that. Just pretty damned good ending to a story.
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