Fairy tales can't come true; it won't happen to you
Shambling into the living room this morning, where my wife was watching the news, I heard—even before my first coffee—a woman use the word fairytale three times in ninety seconds while gushing about the pending royal wedding in Britain.
No one should have to endure that in the early morning. Or at any time of day.
Trying to stamp out the “’Tis the season” cliche in articles is a lonely struggle against titanic forces, and the inane accounting of the price tag of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” has apparently drunk an immortality potion. So it is with little or no confidence that I suggest eighty-sixing the “fairytale wedding” cant. (D’you remember how the last one turned out?)
The combination of the Cinderella fantasy and the latent Anglophilia on these shores—the latter spreading even beyond PBS watchers—is a potent cocktail, and writers should be wary of the hazards of intoxication. Try to stay sober.