I recently red on the Guardian website (a British newspaper) that Prince William and his bride are the new Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. Well, isn't that...something. I guess for ol' Billy the title of "prince" has become a tad passe, but whatever the large toothed royal thought of the additions to his resume, I was preoccupied by a far more pressing question: What if the queen ran out of places and titles to give to the seemingly prodigious amounts of aristocrats, many of whom have enough names and titles to sound like a law firm? Will it ever come to the point where Her Majesty will grandly bestow upon some relative the auspicious title of Duke of Heathrow Airport? Then again, I imagine random towns or well known locations will find themselves honored with their very own members of the aristocracy before Heathrow. Perhaps we'll see a Duke of Goole or a Duke of Stonhenge? Or what about the Princess of the Spittal of Glenshee (not making that name up) or the Duchess of Beachy Head? (If you receive a title named after one of the most notorious suicide spots in the world, I think it's a pretty good indication the family doesn't like you and you may stand in danger of being secretly edited out of the line of succession. I give you fair warning.)
I for one am dreadfully worried about this scarcity. I'd rather not see the queen telling her third cousin twice removed that he can't be the Assistant Duke of Kent because someone already called it before he did and, shucks, the title of Count of The Mumbles (again, not making that place name up) was taken just last week. Tsk tsk tsk.
On a related note, I think it might be fun to be queen and come up with various titles and honors. Anyone I didn't care for would become a Knight of the Grand Order of the Keepers of the Colostomy Bag, commonly referred to as the Crap Keepers. Anyone who takes umbrage (a very fun word) can stuff it.
And one final thought to tickle the mass of nerves we call a brain, does anyone else feel like the queen's living a preternaturally long life? Or is it just me who feels like she's been seventy for the past twenty-nine years? And does she ever feel haunted by the thought that her unfortunate-looking son may be wishing she would just pop off already?
