Pip, pip for Pippa, the girl every red-blooded male now wants to squeeze til she squeaks; the girl who managed to achieve the seemingly impossible.
She made being a maid of honour cool.
Her sister is officially the new Duchess of Cambridge, but Pippa, with a following of 60,000 on Facebook to prove it, is now the sassiest bridesmaid on the planet. Rarely do such a noun and adjective go together. A bridesmaid is destined to be either frumpy maiden aunt, or mutton sheepishly dressed as lamb.
It’s not her fault; the job description states she cannot upstage the bride and she has been chosen for her reliability, her subservience and her willingness to spend an entire day in a dress suitable for a toilet roll dolly. Never mind how close you and your BF are, if she’s dippy, clumsy or stunning, she’s not fit for purpose.
Pippa’s big sister, having nabbed a prince, was clearly in confident and generous mood when she decided on gorgeous Pippa, allowed her a sexy dress and then made her the only grown-up maid. Such status guarantees the attention of every man in the congregation (on this day, ogling the bride being strictly off-limits).
There she is, dutifully herding a little taffeta-clad flock, who probably all want to go to the toilet or wave at their mummies, AND straightening the bride’s train, holding her flowers, blocking the congregation’s view of the £49.99 stickers on the soles of her shoes as she kneels at the altar.
Male onlookers are fooled into assuming she’d make the perfect wife and mother. My neighbour Jeremy decided Pippa was clearly the sort who could make a jolly good bacon sandwich; such dependable a maid would never burn the bacon or cut the bread wonky.
Going solo up the aisle also singles a girl out as single, even if she isn’t. (And chaps, I have bad news; on the day Pippa may have resembled a lone Calla lily, waiting to be plucked, but she IS with partner - a handsome city slicker mate of William’s. You have no chance even if you own Derbyshire).
And then there was that dress. That slithery ivory sheath which, in stark contrast to Kate’s grand affair, looked like it had simply been held above her head and dropped effortlessly into place on her naked form.
Men convinced themselves she hadn‘t a stitch on beneath - and that the dress would slip off just as easily as it went on. Hence why, during the Palace balcony shots, they were urging Prince Harry to take advantage of tradition (Best Man’s prerogative to cop off with the bridesmaid), slide his hand around that tiny waist and whisk its owner off to get trollied.
Which just goes to show how easily fooled they are when it comes to female undergarments,
Thank God, though. They are still none the wiser that, while you’re in the bathroom and they’re waiting expectantly in bed, you’re not only flossing your teeth and having a quick sloosh of mouthwash. You’re whipping off your hold-it-all-in pants and pop-socks and stuffing them into your handbag.