The baby royal has been named, and he was named after me. Pretty much.
Pip, pip and chimichanga from here in Merry Olde England!
George Alexander Louis. Gotta admit, I did NOT see that coming. Billy-boy and Kay-Kay are a modern, hip young couple so I thought they’d go with something a bit more trendy, like Ashton or Braydon. Even though I lost 10 pounds in the Royal Baby pool (remember pounds are what we call money here. We also call it “quiddiches”) and I NEVER thought I would announce the loss of 10 pounds with anything less than total joy, I bear the royals no malice.
Because I am so very deeply touched by the honor they have shown me. George is the traditional name of the eldest boy in my family.
I think that the Kate-ster was so touched by the devotion I showed by deliberately booking a B & B (complete with “full English breakfast”, which is a sausage, a piece of ham, an egg, toast and some baked beans served in the basement “dining room” on tiny tables, crammed so close together I am now fluent in Swedish, French and Chinese from eavesdropping on my fellow diners, seated 4 inches away from me. But I digress…) only a block from where she would bring forth the babe and wrap him in swaddling ermin (wish I’d thought of that – thank you wise and witty commenter, was it Hoi?) on the very day destined for the blessed event. That was no accident.
I planned this trip, timing and itinerary, using a combination of TripAdvisor reviews, Fodor’s English Guidebook, and by reading the signs and portends revealed in the entrails of a sacrificial garden mole.
The Ducal Mumsy knew it was a great, personal sacrifice for me to send my oldest child to stand in the broiling midday sun (along with a bunch of other mad dogs and sweaty Englishmen) in order to capture that once-in-a-lifetime photo (seen exclusively here, in my last post) of various blue and other colored blobs that were positively, definitely and obviously the outline of our young mother, heroically fighting off a herd of cassowaries as brave, brave Sir Knight Billy did do battle with the fearsome baby car seat.
The Royal Nappy Changers were so moved by my actions that they abandoned all the suggestions submitted in the “Name The Babe And Win A Cup O Tea For Life” sweepstakes run by Sainsbury’s grocery chain and went with MY family name. They recognized that our ancient, family tradition is practically as historically significant as their own, pretty long-standing traditions.
I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if they really wanted to call Sir Tot Peg-o-Leg, but the Queen (who we affectionately call “Her Majesty”) put her regal foot down. She had her Chancellor of the Chauffeuralance drive her cross town from her place, to the cozy little palace that the kids have been fixing up in Kennsington. I got this exclusive photo at Buckingham Palace of Her Majesty speeding past on the way to fulfill her Royal Namiacal Advisory Duties. If you’ve ever driven in London, you’ll know that this little jaunt takes a good 3 hours in traffic, but it’s probably still shorter than taking the “tube” during rush hour (which we Londonistas affectionately refer to as the “sardine can of beastly hot stench and despair”).
When the new parents told Her Gracious Grand Grannyness they were considering Peg-o-Leg for a moniker she responded with, “We are not amused.” Usually her spot-on, Queen Victoria imitation has them rolling in the aisles at family get-togethers, but this time she was serious. So after some negotiations, they settled on George because it’s a tradition in both of our families.
I ran over to Kennsington Palace first thing this morning to offer my babysitting services for the next few days, but my peeps, Kate and Billy-Willy, fo-filly, banana-fana,mo-milly, fee-fie, fo-filly, Billy, apparently had already left for the country. They seemed to have forgotten to tell their Head Keeper of the Naughty and Nice List that I might be stopping in, because I couldn’t get past the first guard gate. I’m not pissed (that would be the Yank version, denoting some-might-say-righteous anger at the slight, not the Encyclopedia Brittanica meaning of being drunk as a wheelbarrow, which is an expression I wish someone would explain to me, because I have never understood it.) Heaven knows the newby parents have a lot on their plates (which are gold and ruby encrusted chargers, by the way) and I’m sure leaving me off the BFF list was one of those natural mistakes that could happen to anyone. But I do think the Royal Guardians of the Round Pond setting the Ornamental Attack Swans on me was a bit harsh.
Interesting side note: When the English English talk about taking a plane over to America, they say they are going “across the pond.” By pond, they mean Atlantic Ocean. But when they are talking about a small body of water that in American English would be a “pond”, they don’t, conversely, call it an “Atlantic Ocean.” They call THAT a pond, too. I discussed this apparent contradiction at some length with a gentleman who was feeding the thousands of birds in the Round Pond in front of Kennsington Palace. It turned out he didn’t speak EITHER kind of English, foreign or domestic, but he was a really good listener.
Anyway, I’m not sure if the royals and I are going to be able to get together before I hop back across the pond (that’s more of that Brit talk right there, remember? From the previous paragraph? It’s really quite funny when you think about it, and if you don’t mind the lack of continuity in the usage.) After all, I’m going to be really busy sightseeing and I’m sure they’ve got quite a bit to do as well. Kate’s probably got LaLeche League meetings, and Billy’s a modern kind of daddums, so he’ll be interviewing candidates for the all-important position of Lord High Chancellor of The Dirty Diapies.
At the end of the day, I’m pleased as cheese by baby Georgie. And since it IS the end of the day here, I must sign off. Nighty-o!