The crowning glory

Now I’m the king of the castle!:

Gaston de Rosayro

For a few years now my wife and the immediate family have been trying without an iota of success to influence our six-year-old grand-daughter, Moya Lihini that she has absolutely no links or any clanship to royalty.

Even the most logically convincing reasoning has in no way been able to dissuade the little fury that the appellation ‘Princess’ has been thrust on her only as an endearing designation. But she remains unmoved. As a last resort I was dragooned into the family conspiracy. This was with the hope that my influential wisdom would persuade her to relegate her imperial mindset to that of a more modest station. Honestly, I must say I gave it my best shot conjuring up all my persuasive powers in the process.

But little girls with minds of their own are stubbornly set in their ways. In similarity to most children of her age she has been influenced to a great degree by her first storybooks. You know the type, the ones that feature archetypal fairy-tale princesses, gallant princes, extravagant castles, talking animals, giants, trolls and wicked stepmothers. The last example is perhaps why divorcees and widower fathers of young progeny never get the approval of their little ones to take another shot at marital bliss or rather marital blitz.

A successful business divorcee once mischievously quipped to a buxom woman he fancied that the secret of a successful marriage was ‘incompatability,’ not to be mistaken with incompatibility. He decoded his coined word with the explanation: “I have the income, you have the patability.” He managed to escape unscathed only because he beat a hasty retreat seconds before his wisecrack sank in to the head of the voluptuous lady.

I must actually concede that my name has become a household word because I have become a sort of literary celebrity only among my immediate and extended family. My grandchildren in particular have acted as though my book launches were really more exciting than they really were. They are also actually the only ones who are all ears when I feel the need to talk too much.

As it happens a part of my home boasts a section which soars more than 40 feet skywards and is embellished with several windows that give it a castle-like appearance. That has been another factor which has bolstered little Moya Lihini’s assurance about her regal bloodlines. Clearly aggravated by the line of reasoning adopted by the family disbelievers she was constrained recently to make a powerfully rational rebuttal.

“How come you all say we are not royalty when we live in a castle? Besides, my Dada (that’s yours truly) is the King of Writers.” I blushed uncontrollably at the crowning accolade although I must admit that I rather enjoyed the wildly extravagant honorific. A family wag uncharitably countered her rave review with: “She must have mistaken a Jack for a King.”

Bitchiness and rude remarks apart there is no disputing her logic that a man’s home is his castle. So I for one will never again question either her assumed grandiose lineage or her delightful flights of the imagination. The others may content themselves with wallowing in the realities of life. But there are two of us now who revel in living out our fantasy while belting out the lyrics of the old nursery rhyme: ‘Now I’m the king of the castle, get down you dirty rascal!’