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I blame Walt Disney…

Once upon a time I believed in love. You know, Someday My Prince Will Come, thundering through the forest, muscular mount between his thighs, and our eyes would meet across a crowded glade. Sparrows would chirrup, deer would skip and those furry, black-eyed creatures with stripy tails would do – well, whatever it is that furry, black-eyed, stripy tailed creatures do when they’re feeling the lurve. Sparks would fly. Breasts would heave. And we’d all live Happily Ever After, Amen.

Happy ending, my arse.

You see, time has passed. The world has changed. I’m old now – so old I’ll soon be losing my teeth, forgetting my name, bulk-buying incontinence pads. And in all that time, all that searching, all that hoping, all that bikini-line waxing, not one measly, distant, on-the-horizon, fleeting glimpse of Prince-Chuffin’-Charming!

And that pisses me right off!  True love should be mine; it’s my right as a fairytale fan, a Disney disciple. God knows, I’ve done the homework. I’ve read the stories and sighed. I’ve watched the movies and mooned (moped, not bared my bottom). I’ve lived the life, goddamnit! I’ve toiled and scrubbed; I’ve dressed in rags; I once had Shrek in the shower. I’ve dated my share of the vertically challenged (Bashful was boring, Dopey was dull and Happy turned homosexual.) I wasn’t afraid of the Big Bad Wolf ‘til I caught him in Granny’s knickers; my fingers have suffered too many small pricks; they put me to sleep every time. I’ve let down my hair; I’ve danced with the Beast; I’ve gobbled a Ginger-haired man. I held Jack’s magic beans for a while and boy! did his beanstalk blossom!

I’ve put in the hours. I’ve served my time, now where the bloody hell is he?

I’m 45 years old for God’s sake. I’m nearly dead. What’s he been doing all that time? Wandering the dusty forest paths on his trusty steed, too thick to plug-in the Sat Nav? Even Dappy, who’s too dumb to put his hat on straight, had the sense to search on Facebook.

Nah, it’s time I faced facts. My time has passed. My knight in soft, crinkled-at-the-crotch, stonewashed denim? The bastard’s obviously been hit bit by a truck.

Image sourced from here.

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