We all dreamt that, one day, our balding royal would come, pluck us from the humdrum, day-to-day agency vale of tears and thrust us into a princessy spotlight. Significant fees get paid to the agency and everyone's happy.
But now that regal offspring appear to be mostly heterosexual, there's not much of a market in this added-value service, so we workers at the publicity coalface thrum on with the life ordinary, waiting for the occasional ray of sunshine to break through.
Maybe a prince of commerce will come to the rescue. Working for retailers suggests that they are the most tight-fisted, stone-bleeding skinflints of clients, demanding huge amounts of work for minuscule fees. A tube ticket to Holborn only costs £4 but they'd still rather we hitchhiked to meetings.
(I haven't hitchhiked since 2003 when I got picked up by a confectionery van sales man. Couldn't keep his hands on the wheel, but generous with the Tunnock's.)
Of course, the corollary of being so careful is to be able to transfer £2m of assets to the wife at the drop of a hat. I'm coming to the conclusion that I should have been Mrs King. I'm not entirely sure how, because I was only three when they married, but that has never stopped a PR girl on a mission.
In the meantime, being assigned to the Compost Awareness Week account (starts on 1st May, so by the 7th you'll be fully aware of compost) was not quite what I had in mind as light relief from Royal Wedding mania. As it turns out, the content is much the same, only compost is more useful.
Shit continues to happen, which in this context is a good thing.
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