BY RHOSLYN CARNEY
Foreword: this is the story of a bizarre dream featuring Prince Harry and bassoon extraordinaire Sasha Walker, the latter of whom I had never previously spoken to and consequently forged a great friendship with upon recounting our epic adventure.
This probably wasn’t my job. Correction: this DEFINITELY wasn’t OUR job. But I felt the weight of responsibility nestle on my shoulders and knew that I would see the task to its completion. For country, and for crown.
The mission profile: Prince Harry, the Duke of Sussex and 6th in line for the throne of Great Britain has ostensibly “done a runner”, just days before his wedding to future duchess, Miss Meghan Markle. Our objective was to find the ginger prince and haul his royal highness back to Windsor and the bride-to-be. Intel suggested he was fleeing through the south of France à la Edward VIII (who abdicated in 1937 and was exiled to Austria).
Sasha and I were the only ones for the job, a dynamic duo of foolproof planning, daring manoeuvres, and an almost fanatical appreciation of milk. Deciding that the most logical way of travelling from England to France was to combine multiple avenues of transport, we hatched a plan involving Heathrow airport, a black SUV with tinted windows, and Sasha’s somewhat sorry-looking ute.
Fast-forward to myself behind the wheel of the aforementioned SUV, tearing through British customs with my passport taped to the licence plate. Dividing barriers, bewildered officials, and travel pillows scattered alike as I accelerated towards the gate. Upon arrival, I was informed that under no circumstances would I be able to bring a car on board the aircraft (apparently there is a hefty charge for such bookings). Suitably annoyed, I rampaged back through security and ditched the car in the drop-off zone, just to be petty.
The next instalment of our obviously well-conceived plan was for Sasha to be waiting in our getaway vehicle (her beat-up old ute), ready for a speedy departure. Instead the scene that awaited me was Sasha lounging in the passenger seat with her feet up on the dashboard, tucking into a plate of homemade potato gems and deep-fried ravioli. “Want some?” she enquired, proffering a plate of my own. “We’re supposed to be escaping!” I shouted, flinging myself into the driver’s seat. “Ok fine, a VERY quick snack”.
We located the young prince running “sans vêtements” through a hedge in the south of France, enjoying one final bender before the big day. After a tactical pit stop for champagne, camembert, and all-you-can-eat-baguettes, Harry was returned to Windsor well-fed and fully-clothed to face the combined wrath of his grandmother and fiancée.