Kneel, Knave!
Did you know I'm royalty? Oh, yes, very much so. And not through some hedonistic marriage rite, being related to royalty simply by tagging along with my choice in husband, who, according to my mother-in-law, is something like 14,238.6th in line for the throne of England. Oh, no, I'm much more regal than that, and frankly, feel a bit sullied having such a commoner share in my majesty.
I have no pedigree that can prove this, of course. Posh, those are for sovereigns who are not confident enough in their nobility. Irrefutable evidence comes from my monarchial behaviour lately. Hark! Twice in the past two days, I have found myself amongst the peasants sans children. This, aside from when I'm at work, when I hole up in my cave and talk to NO ONE (safest way to avoid such nastiness as boorish office politics... too egalitarian for me), is highly unusual. My serf husband is quite happy to let me take the kids with me on any errand, nay, rather, adamant that I take them with me on any errand, so I rarely pick a zucchini without at least one princess in tow.
But yesterday was different. I thought I would pick up dinner on the way home from work, alone,
I did the same thing this morning after dropping off the Crown Princess at school and navigating my way past the nannies.
This certainly has nothing to do with the fact that I'm used to saying "us" because I'm always out with my royal progeny. No, I must be coming into my own and accepting my role as Sovereign, who must always use the Royal We when talking about matters of State, or space, as the case may be.
Excuse us, now. We must practice our Royal Wave.
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