What I Might Do if Princess Kate Surprised Me With an Unplanned Visit

A dream come true . . .

SPECIAL NOTE: You will notice in this piece, words like "yeau," "boad," and "KennITH. These are as close as I can come to actually sounding like Princess Kate Middleton when she is talking to me. I did this for you, the British Royalty fans. And although I feel like my efforts to sound like Kate are not that good, at least respect my intentions." (Kenneth).

Is it Catherine? Or is it Kate? The worldwide press uses "Kate," in talking about British Princess Kate Middleton, wife of the "super-lucky," Prince William, of England. Either way, she is one gorgeous lady. In every way. Am I right, or am I right?

Yes, what's not to love about Princess Kate. She's highly-intelligent--well-versed in literature, culture, several languages, music, poetry, literature, has a perfect figure, the perfect weight. And dynamite looks. I think I made that very clear in my first paragraph, but who will complain at me repeating it one more time?

From her charming disposition to her disarming smile, she would have to work hard just to look plain. I think that Princess Kate was one of those women, yeah, one of "those," women who was born beautiful from her mother's womb. I cannot find one single photo of her that isn't beautiful. That flirtatious smile. Those hypnotic eyes. Oh yeah. Prince William is one dude who "has it made" in the wife department. And during their romantic times when they were "courting," and he whispered "sweet nothings" in her ear, and called her "his princess," he wasn't wrong. She "is" a princess. And England's next queen if time lasts that long. I wonder if I could move to England and try being ruled by Princess Kate instead of our own president?

I am not going to elaborate (out of personal respect for this royal couple), on their flaming courtship, dating rituals and famous wedding that overshadowed Prince William's dad, Prince Charles when he wed Princess Diana, for you have heard all of this before. I will not be accused of being a "bore." Shoot me with a shotgun. But do not call me a "bore."

Actually, this story is all about a reoccurring dream I've been having secretly during some restless nights about the outside chance of Princess Kate "winging her way" from Buckingham Palace to spend the day in rural northwest Alabama in my hometown, Hamilton, with me. Just me. No press. No friends. No wife. Just the ultra-lovely Princess Kate and me. What a dream come true for this guy who grew up "in the sticks" facing a battle of survival when prosperity and progress were just words spoken by people of the northern states such as Michigan where the auto factories were booming.

And no, this is not a sad look back into my obscure childhood. This is a dream that I would love to see become a reality so I could write about it on HubPages and use crisp, perfect color digital photos of Princess Kate and me having a great time at my house. Oh what a grand time that would be. Oh what a grand memory for me to leave to my grand kids. Plus getting proof of my day with Kate published in our local newspaper. I would be happy for many years if Kate would call on me. And you would too, so do not act so superior to me. Although most of you are.

In order for this dream of mine to happen, one two things has to be put into motion. First, Kate has to learn whom I am. Second, she has to have some sort of interest in me. Those two drives will ultimately breed a desire in her heart to simply board any airliner of her choosing, and yes, bring her numerous attendants (or is it still called "servants"?) and on the flight to America, talk about me and my limited IQ, simple life, and living a mostly-obscure life with my pet cat, "Festus," in a town that would make "Mayberry, North Carolina," Andy Griffith's home base look like Atlanta, Georgia. It would be revealed later that people of "low station" like me, have a special place in Kate's heart.

And talk about looking her best. When she makes her maiden-voyage to see me, she is dressed to easily be a "12," on scale of 1 to 10. Easy. I can just picture what she would be wearing. A garden hat that looks so stylish on her. A modest-length designer dress made especially for her in Paris, France. High-heels, but not too high. She wouldn't want the press writing that she was "on the make" for an old guy like me. I respect her discretion.

Upon her arrival at Birmingham-Shuttlesworth Airport, (the real name) in Birmingham, Alabama, she immediately boards a bland-looking leer jet to fly the rest of her journey to Rankin Fite Airport in Hamilton, Alabama. And Rankin Fite Airport is the real name. I am getting goose pimples already at the thought of seeing arguably, the most-beautiful lady in the entire world sitting on my couch, prim and proper, leaving her bodyguards outside while we have some good-natured small talk and some relaxing laughter.

Oh, I am beside myself with excitement. I can't eat. This is a sure sign that my adrenaline gland is wide-open and I am running on nervous energy. I practically live in my bathroom for hours of the day of her arrival. I check my nose for unsightly nose hair that would be an insult to such a lady of class as Kate Middleton. Oops, I mean Princess Kate. Sometimes I forget she is not a girl you see in the local honky tonk on Saturday night singing songs from Lee Ann Rimes on the karaoke machine. Princess Kate is a walking, talking, breathing symphony of beauty and grace.

I've chosen my best wardrobe for her arrival. New Faded Glory jeans, shirt, and even wearing new socks to make sure that she knows I am a man of integrity. Not a bum. I have almost worn-out my wrist watch checking the time. I start to sweat from the lack of patience. It's mid-July. Hot as a furnace in Hamilton. I've told my friends for weeks that Princess Kate is going to spend the day with me and they all think that this is one of my pranks and ignore me. They will see. And feel ashamed of themselves for doubting me.

Walmart SuperCenter, Hamilton, is where I have spent close to $300.00 on the best food they have to offer. Sliced ham, pickled artichokes, pimento cheese, rye bread and a half-gallon of low-calorie vanilla ice cream. Who knows? Maybe Princess Kate "eats like a horse," (like me) when the cameras are not rolling. At this point, I can't take a chance. I need to be prepared for her culinary needs.

I am now walking a rut into the carpet in my home. Festus, my pet cat is sitting in my recliner wondering in his cat thoughts, "just what is my lunatic owner up to. This time," and falls asleep not knowing that in a few short hours, "I" will be a part of history in 2012. A life-changing moment of history as one of the world's most-influential and devastatingly-gorgeous women ever to draw a breath, will be walking into my carport and gently into my life. Oh, I feel faint. I walk on weak legs to my refrigerator to get a drink of cold water that always clears my head. Ahhh. Now I feel better.

I hear the precarious sound of several vehicles travelling down a small highway in front of my house. Could it be? What if it is . . ."her", and not a convoy of county trucks hauling gravel to some worksite? Oh my heart is pounding like the bass drum that Ron Bushy, drummer for famous 60's rock band, Iron Butterfly, played on their super-famous and super-long signature song, "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida." My fingers drum the counter in my kitchen. I practice my greeting, "How do you do, Princess Kate?" Naaah, too formal. "Nice to see such a lovely lady," okay. That's it. She will probably not want me to treat her like "royalty." What an easy pun, but what an easy truth.

I peek through my kitchen door curtains. Oh my gosh. I see six black Mercedes-Benz limo's and out of the second limo steps the willowy brunette that the entire world longs to talk to only for a moment, Princess Kate Middleton wearing her designer sunglasses, garden hat, modest-length dress and high-heels being escorted by three brutes who look like "The Rock," Dwayne Thomas. Probably bodyguards. What do I do now?

Okay. This is the moment I've dreamed about. Prayed for. And wrote her no telling emails all but begging the famous English princess to just visit with me, Kenneth Avery, a simpleton with a 12th-grade education, just for one day. She is here. On my property. My right hand is sweaty and shaking as I turn the doorknob to open the door to meet Kate and her people outside my home.

I take a few steps. She sees me and smiles. The "brutes" all pull .45 automatic's and draw-down on me. "Oh, giggle, giggle, yeau must be KennITH," Kate flirts in her perfect English accent. The bodyguards frown at her for being so casual. She is a princess for Pete's sake.

"Uhh, err, cough, cough, yes, that be, I mean, that is me, Kenneth, the Ave . . .I mean, cough, (stumble) Kenneth Avery, and I am much-pleasured, I mean, deligted to meet you, Princess Katey, ooops, sorry, I mean Kate," I manage to reply as she only laughs more and her bodyguards only frown deeper.

"Would you care to come inside out of this hot sun?" I ask.

"Wy' thank yeau, KennITH, you are certainly a formal gent, aren't yeau?" Kate says winking at me as she gracefully walks in front of me and her brutes who are disappointed at me for not asking them to come inside.

I open the door to my kitchen for her. She looks me up and down like a female wolf on a hunt for food, brushes me with her soft hand as she slowly enters MY HOME! She is here. Kate Middleton, "darling of the press," Princess of princesses, in my home. Right here. Right now. I am almost about to faint. I feel the strong tug of one of her Amazon bodyguards whose name is "Jenson," who prevents me and keeps me from falling to the ground and making a complete idiot of myself.

I walk toward Kate and invite her to have a seat. She sits so properly and perfect. And looks at my humble house not as much in joy, but a hint of pity. I sense that in her deep hazel eyes. I cannot take my eyes off of his perfect female specimen.

"Aren't yeau going to offah me a drink, KennITH?" she softly says.

"Sure, Princess. I'm sorry. I've never had a real-life princess in my home before," I explain while she soaks in my flattery like a sponge.

I bring her some delicious Diet Seven-Up on ice. She sips it and exclaims, "no vodka? What are yeau thinking, KennITH?" Then laughs loud like Julia Roberts in "Pretty Woman." For the first time, I am turned-off by one of her traits, but keep it hidden from her.

"What would you like to do first, Princess?" I ask.

"Well, I think it shall be so nice if you would just call me Kate. Just Kate. Not any of that princess jazz. I get that everyday and franklee, I get a bit tired of the bloody bit," she says with a feminine boldness that sends chills up my spine. No, that was cold sweat. No, it was her tone of voice. Yeah. I'm sure of it.

She asks what we are having for brunch and I show her all of the food I have bought at Walmart SuperCenter, Hamilton, Alabama. And she nibbles an arichoke and pimento sandwich like a trained bird. "Ohh, I am stuffed, KennITH. I thank yeau for such a feast," she says rubbing her tummy like a salesman on the road being treated to a buffet lunch by his favorite shoe client. Make that two of her traits that I don't like. What gorgeous, charming British princess rubs her tummy like that? I thought she was the pinnacle of manners. Boy, have I been dumb.

Then she hits me with another block-buster question. "Got me anywheah I can change from this awful dress into me knickers?" I almost fall over in shock. Knickers? Is this really Princess Kate or some clever impostor? "Well?" she insists. I show her to my bathroom and she winks at me as she darts inside with the grace of a salamander running from a predator.

She is in the bathroom for an hour. To the minute. I get impatient. Worried. What if she has passed out from hunger, I think to myself. She does have very slim body. A bit too slim for my liking, but that's me.

"You alright, Kate?" I ask through the bathroom door.

"Can't a gal do her business in peace? I mean really?" she snaps. Oh no, PMS. This isn't happening to me. I thought that maybe she was, well, immune to that, but that's another story for another time.

Finally she walks out and thank God she uses the air freshener. I do not let on that there is an "aroma" in the bathroom. I look at her dressed now in knickers, sneakers, ball cap and comment, "Kate, I have to admit that you look great in those clothes." She smiles graciously and sits down on my couch.

I can tell that something is in the air. Tension, maybe. I hope I haven't offended her. I would die if that were to happen. Even with the two little, unimportant traits that I don't like about her, she is still without question a beautiful girl in any wardrobe. In any country.

I spend some time showing her my office where I work at my computer. "I am a regular flunk when it comes to computah's," she giggles. But sits down and starts "monkeying" with my keyboard and other sensitive keys. I am not about to scold Princess Kate Middleton. She tries my patience with questions such as, "what does this heah key do?" and "what does your computah do if I were to do this?" And I am too diplomatic to tell her that she is pushing the "delete" command key and sending all of my unpublished works into cyberspace forever. Never to be read by anyone.

"KennITH, I'm boad," she gently complains.

"Boad?" I reply. "I don't understand."

"BORED, you ninny," she storms getting up from my PC which is a relief if the truth be known.

I try for the rest of the afternoon to find something that Kate Middleton will like to do. We walk in the yard looking at the flowers growing and she sneezes. I didn't know she was allergic to roses. What woman, princess or otherwise, is allergic to roses?

Festus, my pet tomcat, makes her giggle when he go back into the house. Then he snags her pantyhose she is wearing with her sneakers with her knickers, but only laughs at Festus for being so bold. I hate to think what she would have done to me if I had committed this transgression.

Finally, we both know that our visit is mercifully over. She looks at me with "that" Kate Middleton look. Touches my hand and stands in preparation to leave. Now I am feeling all sad inside at not having the right things for her to do to give her a good impression.

"Do you have to go, Kate?" I ask out of pure sadness.

"Yes, dear KennITH, I have to go. I have responsibilities, duties, and a husband to see to as well as many people under my authority, but I have had a pleasant day. I thank yeau so much, KennITH," she says as she kisses me on my left cheek. And it didn't even get a response. It felt like my elderly aunt, Arvilla, rest her soul, kissing me when I was a boy.

"No, Kate, you didn't have a good time. You were bored out of your royal skull and for that, I am sorry. I did my best to get the right food, do the right things to entertain you and it just didn't work," I explain while her gorgeous eyes tear-up. She is ready to cry. Oh gosh, the brutes with .45 automatic pistols are still outside. I'd better do something fast.

I break into a smooth sampling of "Rocket Man," by Sir Elton John. What a transformation in a person. Princess Kate goes from bored and disappointed to suddenly-ready to dance. "I love it, love," she coos and applauds when I finish.

"I like that in a man. I mean a "lover" who can sing," she says looking very eager to do more than hug my neck for a lovely afternoon.

"Excuse me, what? Lover?" I stutter looking very stupid at her comment.

"That's right. My lover. You could have been my American lover. A proper girl like me needs a man like you to keep her from going insane," she says with a longing in her eyes.

I make, what I think, is a very-sinful, but pleasurable decision.

"What about protection, Kate?" I ask sounding responsible.

"Not to worry. I have four trained bodyguards outside," she replies.

at this point I start singing . . .

"maybe you'll get a replacement--there's plenty like me to be found. Mongrels, who ain't got a penny sniffing for tippies like you . . ." another song, (Goodbye Yellow Brick Road), by Sir Elton John, that really makes puts me back in my place as I watch her and her entourage leave my property.

And life forever.

Whewww. Talk about a close call.