If your partner was a fairy tale character, who would he or she be?
For me, the answer became clear over a Sunday breakfast, as my husband extemporised about yet another a quantum physics chestnut he’d been turning over in his brain.
“I feel like I’m starring in a Sleeping Beauty mash up,” I said. “Instead of awakening the princess with a kiss, the prince sends her to sleep with a lecture on translational symmetry.”
My husband took the gentle ribbing in his stride. The idea stayed with me for the rest of the morning, nipping at my heels.
I thought that the adventures of Prince McSomnolence might make a cheeky Valentine’s Day gift for my brainy Scotsman.
I envisioned a couple of paragraphs spoofing our courtship, but soon, his mum (RIP), aunt and Nanna entered the scene and the word count started to grow. Over the next few weeks, I recruited a favourite uncle to help me capture their Scottish vernacular and asked my husband innocuous questions about his childhood in an Edinburgh tenement, to fill out the draft. I also asked him about his pet topics, to gather material for Prince McSomnolence’s monologues. He seemed surprised at the invitation but rather pleased to oblige.
Gradually, the nuggets I collected snapped into place, like puzzle pieces.
By Valentine’s Day, I had a five page draft, certified by my uncle, and fact checked against Wikipedia: The only version of Sleeping Beauty to reference to Hilbert Space, Scottish sponge cake and Kraftwerk.
Al perused my offering with a grin.
“Stories DO make the world a better place,” he finally pronounced.
I will own that I glowed with authorial pride, though I must confess that if writing improves the world, it improves the author’s world most of all.
In gathering my material, I strengthened my sense of connection to my husband’s family and his history. More importantly, I grew to love the quirks and idiosyncrasies to which I had previously submitted with exasperation. Listening more closely to what he said and how he said it gave me fresh appreciation for his roving, relentless curiosity. Creating a loveable version of him on paper enabled me to better love the 3D original.
Somehow, the fairy tale magic transformed me – if not into a Disney princess, then certainly, into a more open-minded wife.
The kind of wife who chats over Sunday morning coffee about the wonders of translational symmetry — while jotting down notes for a Cinderella sequel.
Fractured fairy tales are such fun. Click here to find out more.
***
Prince McSomolence Meets His Match
“Whit?? There’s nae mair Scottish tablet???!!!” roared the Fairy Thistle. “Fower wee squares I’ve hud and nae ae peck mair, an ye’ve run oot already? Whit sort o’ christening is this?”
“Awfie sorry Ma’am,” replied Queen Elaine. “It’s jist that the bairn’s been awfie colicky, so I huvnae been ma usual sel. Wi him makin sic a racket, an the neebour folk roun’ the stairweel complainin’ non stop tae, I jist huvnae hud the energy. At two a.m., Mac telt me saxteen trays o’ Scottish Tablet was ample, and tae stop my worrin’ an’ come tae bed.”
“That’s aye the way, wi’ an Edinburgh christening,” growled Fairy Thistle. “Aw fur coat an’ nae knickers, an’, ‘come away ben, but ye’ll huv hud yer tea,’ they’ll aye tell me. Fower wee bits o’Scottish tablet an that’s ma lot eh? A curse on the laddie. He’s maist like got a clever heid on his shouders, I gie ye that. But don’t go thinkin’ he’ll become a lad o’pairts, an make ye riches. There’ll be nae wee granny flat or a wee stipend to supplement y’er pension, as ye were nae doubt hopin’.
“He’ll jist stuff his fine heid wi’ useless facts, and when he opens that mooth tae speak, a’ those facts will dance right oot, heel fur heel an toe fur toe, an’ he’ll bore a’body for miles aroon…. tae death!!!”
“Will ye no try ma feather light sponge?” inquired the Lady Maureen mildly, popping over from the neighbouring castle, with her signature tray. “It’s awfie light. I hae a funny premonition that ony future daughter-in-law o’ mine wull never mak yin half as light, whether she may hae a fancy English degree fra Oxford or no.”
“Victoria sponge is nae substitute fur Scottish tablet,” spat the Fairy, showering the Lady Maureen in crumbs.
“Wull ye no have anither piece?” coaxed the Lady Maureen.
“It is awfie light, right enough,” Fairy Thistle granted. “I don’t suppose ye’d share the recipe? If ye micht, then I’ll show some mercy, aye. The laddie wull nae bore a’body tae death, not quite. He’ll jist bore them a’ tae sleep instead, and ah mean a’body he meets. I christen him . . . Prince McSomnolence.”
“Can he no break the enchantment?” asked Queen Elaine. “That’s the rule, is it no? Where there’s an enchantment there’s aye a charm tae break it.”
“He cannae break it,” replied Fairy Thistle. “But a Princess micht, a Princess whae falls in love wi him. A Princess who finds his heidful o’ facts maist Engaging an’ Enlightening.”
“Is that no going a bit far?” protested Queen Elaine, “Engaging an Enlightening baith? Surely, if she jist agrees tae pit up wi’ him, that should dae?”
“Naw, naw, it’s Engaging and Enlightening or the spell carries on as it should,” cackled Fairy Thistle. The fairy disappeared in a puff of confectioners’ sugar that settled stickily on every ledge and surface.
“Ach, I hate cleanin,” grumbled Queen Elaine, surveying the sugary grime. “It was the saxteen trays that did it. Ah knew, right enough that twenty is what’s proper for a christenin’. From this day forward ah’ll never seek tae short-change ma guests o’ sweeties again.”
And sure enough, she never did.
But a pledge made too late was of no help to young Prince McSomnolence.
As he grew, his parents did their best to shield him from facts. They locked away all the books in the castle, distracted him with an enticing Playdough Barber Shop, and sent him off, on weekends, on rainy gulley scrambles to fortify his princely character.
Then one day, Queen Elaine was summoned to track down the missing cash at the Aberdeen branch of Safeway – a five hour round trip drive to solve a ten-minute mystery — and King Ali set off to fish for the Loch Ness Monster, leaving Prince McSomnolence alone to explore the castle. His wanderings brought him to a tiny door he’d previously overlooked. Working the lock took a bit of effort, but a prince who has a keen mind and no access to books develops a knack for tinkering.
Imagine his surprise when he opened the door and for the first time, beheld a room crammed with bookshelves! His deceased grandfather’s miscellany, carefully hidden away all these years to protect the prince from Fairy Thistle’s spell. Prince McSomnolence remained all afternoon, turning page after page in amazement.
Queen Elaine was every bit as amazed that evening, when she drove her car into the portcullis (the regal parking method of choice) and opened the door. Before she had a chance to hang her crown — a dazzling peacock feathered number from Jenners — he began:
“The key difference between classical mechanics and quantum mechanics is that classical mechanics operates in the three-dimensional space you are familiar with, whereas quantum mechanics works in Hilbert Space, with infinite dimensions. When people talk about quantum mechanics, you have to remember that they are describing –”
“Oh Goad, it’s that spell’,” groaned Queen Elaine groggily. “Whaur is the lassie whae’ll ever find sic blathers engaging, let alone enlighten . . .z z z”
And with that, the hardworking Queen fell fast asleep in her favourite armchair, leaving the menfolk to fend for themselves, with nothing more in the chest freezer to keep famine at bay than a dozen trays of pizza, seventeen steak and kidney pies and a trough of spag bol.
Prince McSomnolence grew to be handsome and athletic. He was undeniably clever – all the dads and lads at the Scotty agreed – but he showed very little inclination to wealth.
When his Nanna gave him a few coins for Christmas, he popped them into a cup of Red Cola and explained excitedly how the copper combined with phosphoric acid to produce copper phosphate and hydrogen, provided one stirred every so often to stop the reaction products from blocking the process. He seemed entirely unperturbed that his pocket money has dissolved away, though he wondered at his Nanna’s gentle snores, when he was imparting such interesting information.
When his mates visited the bookie, he might have used his wiles to place winning bets but instead, he launched into a multi-part lecture about probability, odds and the aerodynamics of horse racing. No bids at all were placed that day, as the customers, lulled by his explanation, dozed on the betting room floor, dreaming contentedly of winnings that Prince McSomnolence had demonstrated were statistically impossible to obtain.
When Queen Elaine convinced the Safeway manager to hire him to stack shelves, Prince McSomnolence always showed up with a five-minute cushion, his punctuality unimpaired by the occasional hangover. But the rest of the staff learned to bring cushions of their own, the better to siesta during his lengthy treatises about the various chemicals on the ingredient labels of the tins it was his princely duty to stack.
“I don’t see why they’re not interested,” grizzled Prince McSomnolence glumly. “I didn’t even get to the molecular structure, and I was going to explain about how spin–
“Get ye away doon tae Cambridge whaur sic blethers are regarded,” Queen Elaine decreed. “Ye can wibble wabble there tae yer hearts content nae doot. Jist dinnae dare ye tae bring back an English girl.”
And so it was that like Newton before him, Prince McSomnolence laced up a pair of New Balance 520v7s, tucked a few choice Kraftwerk vinyls under an arm – his father, King Ali, promised to deliver six further boxes once the boy had settled in — and started down the A1 to Cambridge at a leisurely 4.2 minute/km clip.
By nightfall, he reached the outskirts of the Land of Nor, ruled by a pair of famous eccentrics. Prince McSomnolence was a bit out of puff, and curious to meet these maverick monarchs, so he knocked on the castle door.
The castle was heaving with young men of all stripes.
“They’re all in the queue to try their luck with Princess Janeite,” the King explained. “My daughter has terrible insomnia. So I have decreed that the man who can send her to sleep is the man she will marry.”
“Insomnia is unpleasant,” Prince McSomnolence concurred. “I’ve recently given up my evening espresso. Not an easy concession for a creature of habit.”
“Go on and join them at billiards if you wish,” said the King. “I’ve never understood the game myself. Why do grown men make such a fuss about getting balls into pockets? And if they’re so eager to push the balls off the table, why did they set them on the table in the first place? There’s people for you.”
“I was just thinking about billiards on the way over,” said the Prince, who generally spent his runs turning over some problem or other in his head. “Did you ever stop and think how odd it is that you can play billiards on a train, and everything – you, the billiard table, the balls, the ceiling — move in perfect synchronicity? The German mathematician, Emmy Noether showed that it’s because of translational symmetry. (Mental Post It Note: Remind me to tell you about Emmy Noether’s first lecturing position.) So because it has translational symmetry, the point of origin doesn’t matter. Hence, billiards work on a train.”
Crash! Clang!
One by one, the billiard cues fell to the floor as the suitors sank to the ground in stupor. Even the King of Nor – who fancied himself an intellectual of the first order – began to nod.
Fortunately, the Queen of Nor was hard of hearing, and, having only grasped one word of the prince’s lecture in three, remained awake.
“Young man,” she pronounced, “I believe you may have just the cure we’ve been seeking. Come meet Princess Janeite.”
So Prince Somnolence was introduced to the lovely Princess Janeite, who looked most fetching in her Froggie nightshirt.
“Now talk,” instructed the Queen, retreating hastily.
Prince McSomnolence reached for his mental Post It note and explained about how, when Emmy Noether first lectured at the University of Gottingen, she took the podium under the name of her colleague, David Hilbert, because the misogynistic university refused to give her a lectureship in her own right. Then he segwayed into translational symmetry, adding that time invariance was an intriguing extension of the concept. He was about to diagram Hermann Weyl’s application of Noether’s principles to quantum mechanics when he paused to take a sip of mint tea (the time being well past his 4 p.m. coffee cut off), and noticed the princess was very much awake, scribbling notes into her magenta Leuchtturm1917.
“Oh dear,” said Prince McSomnolence. “You aren’t falling asleep at all.”
“Why did anyone think your riveting discourse could possibly serve as a sleeping aid?” asked Princess Janeite. “You are a most Engaging prince and your remarks on Noether are most Enlightening. Has no one ever told you?”
“I fear that your mother will be disappointed,” the prince replied. “My strict instructions were to send you to sleep.”
“What really helps me to go to sleep is to read Jane Austen out loud. But every time I suggest it, I get an eye roll, and an earful about how princes and knights don’t read girlie novels. Though I’d like to see any of them pit their rapiers up against Gentle Jane’s wit. Do you like novels?” she asked, hopefully.
“I don’t really read them,” the prince replied, “though I’ve read a very interesting 600 page biography about the Brontes.”
Then it occurred to him that there probably weren’t many princesses in froggie nightshirts out there who would find his thoughts on Emmy Noether both engaging and enlightening. He also noticed a small container of citrus nibbles on her bedside table and wondered if they were for sprinkling on muesli. Just this once, might he try to be a Little Flexible?
He took a deep breath and added slowly – not wishing to promise more than he could deliver – “Although I do not read novels as a rule, I believe that for you, I would gladly read one Jane Austen novel out loud every five years, beginning this evening, and ending with Persuasion on our twenty-fifth anniversary.”
“Twenty-five years is not too long to wait for Captain Wentworth,” Princess Janeite replied, “and twenty-three years was not too long to wait for you.”
So Prince McSomnolence and Princess Janeite read the first chapter of Northanger Abbey, and soon, Princess Janeite was sleeping peacefully. Whether she dreamed of Prince McSomnolence or Henry Tilney, this narrator is not authorized to say.
The next morning, they were married (Prince McSomnolence and Princess Janeite, not Henry and Catherine, who had another thirty chapters to go).
They had an inquisitive son who frequently asked his father for lectures on string theory and a single-minded daughter who was adept at steering any conversation, no matter how unrelated, back to the evergreen topic of enlightened hamster care.
As Jane Austen said of Catherine and Henry, to begin perfect happiness at the age of twenty-three is to do pretty well. They all lived happily — or in the case of the froggies on Princess Janeite’s nightshirt, hoppily — ever after in translationally symmetrical bliss.
The end.
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