deathlings.com: Diana Seventeen

Diana Seventeen
a reluctant story of devotion
by d. g. k. goldberg

It was the sixteenth suicide of a Diana look-a-like at the gates of Kensington Palace since the public works department cleared away the huge masses of flowers. Peering through my zoom lens I noted that this one had not done a particularly good job of bleaching her hair--about one inch of brown root was visible. Still she was better by half than the last one, a female impersonator from a sleazy Soho nightspot. The drag queen had been cursed with extremely bony knees. As I weaseled through the crowd a sweet-faced elderly woman snarled "murderer" at me. I moved closer to the corpse to get a better angle for my shot. A group of Sisters of Diana told me they forgave me. One of them pressed a five into my hand (as if I could live on that.)

Another photographer crouched beside the corpse getting a shot of the stigmata she had inflicted on her hands. "Died for your sins," someone in the crowd murmured. It's not my fault that I was made redundant from the BTA. Tony Blair talks a good game but, at the end of the day, Labor never delivers. When the Tories are in tourism goes up, that's a fact.

Tourism is about as dead as the real Princess Diana now, what with daily suicides in Kensington Gardens and the Queen making the Buckingham Palace Guard redundant. Not relevant in the nineties, she'd said on her daily BBC call-in show. Poor bastards--what kind of future is there for an ex-Royal Guardsman? I keep checking the job center. I have hope that my background in tourist information can be parleyed into some sort of sales position. It's terrible, really, hanging about all day hoping for a suicide or a sighting to photograph then hustling down to Fleet Street to peddle pictures.

By the time the police arrived to deal with the most recent Diana I was completely knackered, I headed back home on the nearly deserted District and Circle line. Since privatization the tube is even less reliable than its, former nervous self. The chippie nearest the station exits was closed again. He keeps highly irregular hours--he's always dashing off to Cornwall in hopes there is a sighting of Prince Harry. He wants to ask Harry to lay hands on his arthritic knee.

I was too exhausted to cope with the Indian grocery. Mrs. Singh had inexplicably and irrationally alphabetized the stock according to some lunatic system that put toilet bowl cleaner next to chicken tikka and filed tea (bags) next to beer. I'm clueless enough with out having to work a word puzzle whenever I want a few tins of beans or a pre-cooked meat pie. I bought a bag of prawn crisps, two pints of bitter, and a Cadbury's dark chocolate at the over-priced off-license. The clerk made a sign warding off the evil eye as soon as he spotted my camera.

The streets of Shepherd's Bush were lined with pseudo-lepers who fell to their knees, hands crossed in front of their faces shrieking, "No pictures, no pictures." as I passed them. My equipment is too bulky to hide.

The flat was uncharacteristically silent. I was heating up a tin of soup when it registered that this time Margo had made good her frequent threats. She had actually left me. When I reached into the cupboard to retrieve a bowl my hand made contact with the empty shelf. I was traumatized. She had taken the dishes we'd bought when we went to the Cotswolds last August Bank Holiday. It had been a terrible trip, Margo had eaten some shepherd's pie that was a bit off and had run to the loo off and on all night. The proprietor of the B&B wanted to charge us extra for all the flushing (that sort of thing never happened when the BTA was at full staff.) Labor.

I was feeling quite sorry for myself, drinking my beer, and eating soup out of the pan. I imagined that the scent of her passionflower bath talc hung in the air. I didn't fall into a reverie recalling the endearing stupidity of her chubby face; I thought instead of snuggling up to her warm bum and mourned. Dear simple Margo fed up with the vagaries of my income, and angered by my refusal to allow a household altar and memorial shrine in our bedroom, had left me. Poor me, alone and cold.

I turned on the radio and sat on the window ledge crumbling prawn crisps into my soup. The BBC announced that CNN had just televised an unconfirmed report that Prince William was spotted with two female hikers near Los Cruses, New Mexico. It was the third sighting of His Royal Highness since he had disappeared during the course of a walkabout in Swindon a fortnight ago. The IRA was denying any responsibility for Prince William going missing. The British navy ringed the emerald isle and scud missile launchers were rumored to have been unloaded in the Shetland and Orkney Islands.

Since Charlie, formerly known as Prince, had renounced any claim to the throne and moved into a crofter's cottage at the edge of Balmoral estate, his intention being to raise a hybrid apple-pear-lettuce tree, the search for HRH Prince William had escalated. When ITN news accosted Charlie, formerly known as Prince, in the kitchen garden behind his cottage he seemed to say something along the lines of "boys will be boys."

The comment of the ex-Royal Highness was obscured by his excitement over the possibility that the TV lights could be used to extend the daylight hours available to his tomato plants and increase their output.

A Thames TV commentator sought legal council regarding allegations that the ex-Royal encouraged her to perform a normally private bodily function in full view of the press corps "to maintain the integrity of the environment."

I had heard rumors that the Queen had been approached by a delegation of Frenzied Furious Feminists on horseback who insisted that Princess Anne be named heiress to Her Majesty's extensive media empire. An anonymous source close to Her Majesty's production chief denied rumors that Queen Liz stated she wouldn't have an heir that looked like her horses. It was further denied that the Queen refused to have the Princess Royal as a guest on her weekly variety show on Thames Television unless Princess Anne submitted to a complete makeover with the assistance of British Vogue.

Horrible to try to sleep without Margo's soft breathing. The rhythm of her breathing always seemed to shut out the moaning of the pseudo-lepers in the streets below. I wondered where she was, I suspected she had joined the Order of Diana and was even now one of the robed sisters lighting candles and keeping vigil outside of Annabell's or opposite the entrance to the perfume department of Harrods. There had been three reports of the blind spontaneously seeing in the Catherine Walker boutique this week. The accounts of cripples walking around the cosmetic departments of Harrods numbered in the hundreds. Shoving my head under the pillow, I try to sleep with images of Diana catwalking across my mind.

Awakened by the insistent ringing of the clock, I turn on the news. The run of reported miracles continues. A pensioner in Mile End reported that the image of Lady Diana spontaneously appeared in tinned custard that he was pouring over sponge cake for a late tea. A shop clerk in Woking caring for a crippled, schizophrenic brother suffering from AIDS reported winning the lottery due to Diana's intercession on behalf of his brother. The shop clerk was quoted as saying; "This proves that she is still concerned in death with the causes dear to her in life." A school teacher in Cardiff told the BBC that seven of her students recovered from severe acne after touching her Royal Wedding Commemorative Pen Holder. The sun is rising and I've pictures to take.

After a saucepan of tea, (you'd think Margo would have left me one cup) I gather my gear and head towards Kensington Palace. I seem to have the best luck there although I've met lots of blokes who swear by St.Paul's and a few who can't tear themselves away from Sloane Square. The grass and litter are still damp with dew. It is a typical day in Kensington Gardens; Fergie is prostrating herself before the camera crews of several American networks. Prince Philip is in the Orangery sipping a cup of Earl Grey with Ted Turner and negotiating to sell all the rights to the Duchess of York. Ted is a bit reluctant; he is concerned about whether or not the Royals really have title to Fergie. You don't make the fortune Mr. Turner has without getting the benefit of excellent legal advice along the way.

The police have put up barricades and issued a caution to Princess Anne and the FFF horsewomen. Last week the parents of a group of school children from Ross-on-Wye, Herefordshire registered a complaint when the children returned from London covered in horse feces. Germaine Geer and Susie Orbach cantered down the flower walk and ran down a group of Bosnian diplomats who had taken up residence opposite the public WC to wait for a sign from Diana that would indicate how they should proceed in their negotiations with the Serbs and Disney. Princess Anne was going to definitely need the services of a good PR firm soon.

Across the park, in Buck House, Eddy the Prinz, is on a conference call to Hollywood trying to get Madonna, Tom Cruise, and Billy the Prez to consider cameo roles in the film of his musical !Paparazzi! His girl friend Sophie emerges from the WC where she has just vomited up her breakfast to ask him if the suit she's wearing makes her look fat, Eddie motions for her to keep quiet. Then recalling his Royal Into the Millennium Sensitivity Course, he blows her a kiss. Disgusted Sophie puts on her Walkman and stalks off down the long corridor to find Princess Margaret so they can go out for a drink.

Sophie almost trips over a corgi as she stumbles into the drawing room where Queen Liz and Maggie are working out with HRH's personal trainer. The Queen has become a bit of a fanatic since she began the weekly TV program, she swears the camera adds a stone. With Margaret occupied, Sophie slips out the back way towards Clarence House, she can count on the Queen Mother to lay on creme cake and biscuits for elevenses.

There is the usual cluster of pilgrims near the gates of Kensington Palace. I am almost run over by a roller skater as I move out of the path of a wave of Japanese tourists, I notice that no one has anything to say about their cameras. A nutter who keeps thrusting a wilted lily towards her as though it was a microphone is interviewing Lady Colin Campbell. He claims to represent the Alpha Argonean News Agentory. Lady Colin Campbell is nattering on about the pressures of public life while her interviewer rubs his crotch and insists that she call him Fidel.

The public television monitor that has replaced the Queen Victoria statue informs us all that HRH Prince Andrew has again categorically refused to leave the MIR space station any time in the near future. Bills to pay and nothing to photograph, I am already tired. I feel unwell.

I slip through the predictable crowd: a few art students looking mildly stoned hoping they will see a Diana apparition blend with a group of blue haired ladies solemnly staring at the palace gate. There are several young girls in leather who heard Prince William was living in Earl's Court with a group of Australians, the young girls cluster around a vendor selling relics of the Queen of Hearts. Very little ever changes in Kensington Gardens. Two old gentlemen sit on a bench arguing about how many people were here last week, last month, last year.

Needing to make some money, I resolve to try Buck House or St. Paul's, I turn from the gates and start maneuvering through the intractable crowd, it has become a matter of honor for everyone to hold steadfast to his or her own bit of England. I dodge blonde little girls in black watch plaid skirts and hostile young men with shaved heads. A sweet faced granny stomps on my instep with a rather malicious smile on her face. A milky-faced fat boy wipes his sticky hand on the edge of my coat. A frail teenage girl in black grabs my camera strap half choking me. "It's no better than you deserve," a red faced man in a blue cardigan mutters.

Finally, on the fringes of the crowd, I step onto the Bayswater Road sidewalk. Crossing near Lancaster Gate, I decide to walk down to Marble Arch to clear my head, I always feel a bit claustrophobic after being in that infernal crush of humanity in the park.

Just pass Lancaster Gate I spot her coming towards me, she seems to have come from over towards Paddington Station. I am overcome with serenity; I am infused with peace. She moves quickly yet gracefully, not as if she's being pursued. She moves like someone who is enjoying her walk, but nonetheless has places to go, pressing commitments she is obliged to keep.

I'm not quite sure at first. The height is right. The hair's a bit longer than I've ever seen it. The blue merino wool coat is open, revealing a matching blue dress. Still I'm not quite certain. Then she makes eye contact with me; I look into those enchanting, luminous blue eyes. I know it is she. I feel, rather than see, the radiant aura surrounding the Princess. She is cradling something in her arms, talking softly to whatever it is as if she is comforting it. As she gets closer, I see that the Princess is cuddling a wounded raven. The bird doesn't look well at all--it may be dying. Lady Diana's compassion for the bird is evident. Then I feel a sharp pain in my chest, a burning, a piercing. " I am sorry. I have pain." I whisper these words to the moist eyed Princess as she clutches the raven to her breast and I fall to the pavement. I am redeemed. I am finished. I am dead else I would feel the soft mauve lips pressed briefly to my cheek before she straightens her shoulders and fades into the crowd.

I raise my camera to photograph her and I'm immediately washed in guilt. I threw my camera in front of an oncoming tour bus and fell to my knees before her, "Bless me, Diana, for I have sinned," I sob, clutching desperately at the hem of her tastefully designed clothing.

She smiles at me. Lightly, do I imagine it? Her elegant fingers brush my head. "Then, go an sin no more," she says. "Pity about the camera," she says. "No one has run a decent photo of me in ages. That lot taken on Al Fayed's yacht were dreadful."

I hang my head in shame. I should have kept the camera. "Can I do anything at all to atone," I mumble.

And, so I have come to this: One phone call to Rupert Murdoch, one to James Whittaker, and one to Andrew Morton. Bringing me here, to the British Home Shopping Channel, the only anointed purveyors of Diana, Princess of Wales biscuits, sweets, lip gloss, cell phones, replica jewelry, jumpers, junket, jellies, ink pens and knickers. If you'll dial the number at the bottom of the screen before half past the hour you'll receive a special Diana tea cosy with any purchase totaling more that twenty pounds.