Reading a book called “Mortification” where famous writers tell of their public humiliation on book tours, interviews etc… Reminded me of my Princess Anne Experience.
When I was fourteen she came to our school and I was chosen as my year representative in the Art Department. The big day came and we all stood in a row in front of a display of paintings and models. At the last minute I was told to say that I’d made the model behind me. This was a two foot high knight in armour sitting on a horse, perfect in every detail- chain mail, linen underclothes, leather saddle and miniature arrows tipped with flint. All four eyes were tiny marbles, the horse's tail was real horse hair and the knight's hands were sculpted in pink plastercine. A total masterpiece.
Anyway, Princess Anne turns up late, in a helicopter, walks down the line and stops at me.
‘Is this yours?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Very interesting. What’s it made from?’
And because I hadn’t made it and had hardly looked at it I didn’t know.
'Uh...wood,' I say. 'And...'
I couldn’t look over my shoulder to check and my mind had gone blank.
Big silence.
‘…wood, mainly.’
This was obviously not true.
Princess Anne squints at me like I’m a total imbecile then sniffs and moves on to the next kid.
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