I was in bed last night reading one of my beloved gossip magazines (shame on me, I know). This particular magazine is claiming in some detail that Princess Kate is finally pregnant. That is nice. The following caught my attention:
….but an insider tells Xxxx magazine that an official announcement could be held back for as long as two months. ‘It would be made formally through the palace press office, but only after the royal gynecologist is absolutely convinced that Kate is in peak condition.’
Dude? The royal gynecologist. Not just a gynecologist, mind you, but a fucking royal gynecologist. If there is such protocol for every detail regarding Her Majesty and the Royals, what is the protocol for dealing with a royal vagina? Dost thou curtsy once the patient is in stirrups? Is there a raising of a flag in the office? Does the royal gynecologist wear a really fashionable hat? Is the speculum adorned with precious jewels? Does the owner of a royal penis get his own royal physician?
I can’t stop shaking my head. That has to be the job title to end all job titles. Imagine a table full of ladies lunching and the polite chit-chat. “What do you do?” “I’m a hair stylist.” “I’m a personal shopper.” “I’m a stay at home mother.” “I am the royal gynecologist.” Spoons clank down on the table, someone inevitably chokes on a mouthful of water, someone else pauses mid air while buttering a roll, and then there is silence as each one of the ladies says to themselves: “A royal gynecologist? Now I’ve fucking heard it all.”