LONDON--So, here I am just browsing in the athlete's village--the part where regular media humans can go, although hardly any are here--looking at athletes large and small. Suddenly, a commotion as a group of people come marching this way.
Young women start to swoon, and shop workers, sweat-suited jocks and coaches, even bobbies begin to chase the group. Me, I'm standing there, letting it come to papa.
Boom! Princess Kate is near asking me if I'll stop for a spot of champagne and a roll with the royal yorklings, or whatever the Queen's little dogs are called.
OK, not really. Because Prince William was ahead of her, wearing a red baseball cap. He's reasonably tall. In shape. And there were some mean-looking larger dudes in dark suits, to boot.
The Princess--for you People Mag readers--is very tall and very slender. High cheekbones, well-appointed makeup, long brown hair, reeks of money and, uh, royalty.
Next, I'll give you Pippa. Or maybe Scottie Pippen.
Our encounter was brief, yes. But how long does true affection take to become fruit, ripen, fall from the tree, and splatter like a melon dropped from a dorm? Swift!
I felt it. She certainly did. But, as in a fairy tale, while I was hunting for nutrients to put some meat on her bones, the poor thing vanished. Gone from my life.
Ah me, I bleed! I swoon!