Now that I’m back in Maastricht doing the day-to-day grind I’ve got to work very concentratedly to keep myself distracted at work. Not surprisingly, I find my mind wandering about aimlessly, like so:

We’ve all got our respective crushes on Wills and Harry but no girl ever really grows up thinking she might actually be a princess. None that aren’t heavily medicated, anyway.

But in Denmark, Princess Mary – formerly of Tasmania, Dowunder – has gone and snagged herself a prince, and women everywhere are mad with jealousy.

I visited Copenhagen shortly after her wedding to Prince Freddie, and found myself gaping in the grounds of Amalienborg Palace, Princess Mary’s new digs. Soon enough, as I was idly eyeing the strapping young guards, a tour group of Australians happened past and I caught drifts of the conversation. ‘Yeah, I can’t believe Mary gave up her Aussie citizenship so fast…’ ‘I know mate, she totally sold out.’ ‘Dunno what she was thinking…’

Erm, I think I could hazard a guess. I can just imagine the conversation between Freddie and our Mary: ‘Now Mary darling, you do realise by marrying me you’ll have to give up being a Tasmanian?’

‘Uh, yep, that’s fine.’

‘And you’ll probably be subjected to all kinds of invasive fertility tests?’

‘Seriously, it’s no problem.’

‘And if we get divorced I’ll get to keep the kids?’

‘No worries.’

‘the media will rip you apart if you so much as step out with a zit?’

‘No really honey, I got it. Just show me where to sign and point me to my wing of the palace.’