Apart from the pasta, the most exciting thing to happen to me in Monaco was almost being run over by Prince Albert. I was wandering up a little road towards the palace when a policeman shot round the corner on a motorbike and motioned to me to get out of the way. I just managed to squeeze myself up against a wall before a vast black Mercedes whizzed by carrying the prince himself.
I immediately called my husband to tell him. “It’s not so surprising that you should see him there, he does live there after all,” was his response. “It would be more surprising if I were to see him in Pezenas market, where I’m headed now.”
When I got home I decided to try my prince story out on a less cynical, and captive, audience. Bea and her best friend Manon were in the back of the car as we drove home after an excellent (and smoke-free) dinner at IKEA.
“Girls, guess what?” I said. “When I was in Monaco, I saw a REAL LIVE PRINCE.” They could hardly fail to be impressed by this news, I waited for the hsyterical reaction and questions such as was he wearing a crown, did he kiss you, was he on a horse etc etc.
“Yeah, whatever,” said Bea, not even bothering to look up from the game they were playing. “We prefer princesses.”
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007