Reflections of an Israeli monarchist on the eve of the royal wedding

I consider myself qualified to meddle in the affairs of the British royal family, about which I began to hear as a mere child, and especially about Prince Charles. This happened courtesy of my mother who frequently informed me about the prince’s habits and way of life in order to drum into me the fact that I am not Prince Charles and I never will be. Charles, according her, had servants who folded his clothes, tidied his room and brushed his teeth at bedtime, whereas I, being a non-Charles, had to perform these tasks under my own steam.

Unlike lucky Charles who could refuse to eat whatever was on his plate at lunchtime because a whole kitchen staff was ready to prepare alternative dishes for him until something was to his liking, I had to chew my mother’s horrible cooking and then swallow it because Fate – as she would observe with tart realism – had been cruel to me and had not made me Prince Charles.

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