Royal visits are a big deal in Africa, whether lions to a waterhole or a crowned head of Europe to the southern tip. This particular tale of royalty visiting South Africa starts, strangely enough, in the snows of Davos at a lunch on obsession.
‘Is obsession always a good thing, or can it be bad’ was the title of a lunchtime session at the World Economic Forum at Davos, and Steffi Graf was one of seven scheduled speakers.
Princess Mathilde (L) and Crownprince Philippe of Belgium (R) attend the military parade in Brussels on July 21, 2010, as part of the Belgian National Day. AFP PHOTO / BELGA PHOTO / ERIC LALMAND – BELGIUM OUT
A tall, rather refined looking chap politely asked if he could occupy the chair next to mine.
“Of course, you needn’t ask, people can sit where they like,” I said.
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“Ah, but you are important. Your name is writ large on the table, next to Ms Graf so I did need to ask.”
I chuckled. “Just the moderator of the session, not important at all,” I said.
“And who are you?” I asked, squinting at his large white card hanging from the participant ribbon everyone wears.
“Philippe,” he said.
“And what do you do, Philippe? I need to put you in a pigeonhole.”
“I’m a prince.”
“Oh? So what do you do?”
Slightly taken aback, he said, “I’m the Crown Prince of Belgium.”
“Yes, but what do you actually do? What is a Crown Prince’s job?”
“I help the government, I suppose. Actually I work pretty hard,” he reassured me, but now slightly aloof, I thought, realizing I’d been rather rude to royalty.
We were joined by the tennis wunderkind, lunch was underway, she spoke movingly of how she became obsessed with tennis, which brought her some happiness but also a lot of sadness as a child.
“When I was an unhappy girl because of fighting in the family, I would get over it by going out and hitting a ball against a wall,” said the tennis champion, world number one for 187 consecutive weeks.
“So when I made my first Wimbledon final, I told my coach I needed to hit against a wall. This is bad for your tennis, he said, and so he would not allow it. In fact there are no walls to hit against at Wimbledon anyway.”
“So I fired my coach the morning of my final and the officials found a wall against which I could hit a ball at a nearby school. I am not sure that kind of obsession is a good thing,” shy Steffi said with a smile.
She was world number one, for a total of 377 weeks and has 22 grand slam singles titles. “If I’d been world number one for just one week I’d have died a happy man,” I told the audience, and the Prince.
“By the way, I’m coming to South Africa in about six months,” he said.
“Great! Give me a call and you can come have lunch,” I said, and promptly forgot about it.
Seven months later, my rather bemused secretary said, “The Palace is on the line for you.”
A very plummy, terribly British voice said: “His Royal Highness Prince Philippe says you invited him to lunch and he’d like to take up the offer…”
“Certainly,” I spluttered.
“He is coming with an entourage, and asks if he may…”
“Of course, they are all welcome.”
“Good,” said plummy voice. “There are 124 of them.”
Astounded silence from me, laughter from him.
“No, he just wants to bring the five or six cabinet ministers traveling with him.”
And so, sometime in Africa, it came to pass that Prince Philippe dined at The Star with assorted ministers of state.
Soon after our function, Belgium’s government failed spectacularly, leaving the country without any government for months.
On July 21 last year, my prince became King Philippe. He did say, in thanking me after our modest repast, that if I ever found myself in Belgium I should visit him at the palace. I have never taken up the offer. He was only the Crown Prince then.
Perhaps I’ll pop in one day just to ask him impertinently: “So, what does a King actually do?”
Royal visits are a big deal in Africa, whether lions to a waterhole or a crowned head of Europe to the southern tip. This particular tale of royalty visiting South Africa starts, strangely enough, in the snows of Davos at a lunch on obsession.
‘Is obsession always a good thing, or can it be bad’ was the title of a lunchtime session at the World Economic Forum at Davos, and Steffi Graf was one of seven scheduled speakers.
A tall, rather refined looking chap politely asked if he could occupy the chair next to mine.
“Of course, you needn’t ask, people can sit where they like,” I said.
“Ah, but you are important. Your name is writ large on the table, next to Ms Graf so I did need to ask.”
I chuckled. “Just the moderator of the session, not important at all,” I said.
“And who are you?” I asked, squinting at his large white card hanging from the participant ribbon everyone wears.
“Philippe,” he said.
“And what do you do, Philippe? I need to put you in a pigeonhole.”
“I’m a prince.”
“Oh? So what do you do?”
Slightly taken aback, he said, “I’m the Crown Prince of Belgium.”
“Yes, but what do you actually do? What is a Crown Prince’s job?”
“I help the government, I suppose. Actually I work pretty hard,” he reassured me, but now slightly aloof, I thought, realizing I’d been rather rude to royalty.
We were joined by the tennis wunderkind, lunch was underway, she spoke movingly of how she became obsessed with tennis, which brought her some happiness but also a lot of sadness as a child.
“When I was an unhappy girl because of fighting in the family, I would get over it by going out and hitting a ball against a wall,” said the tennis champion, world number one for 187 consecutive weeks.
“So when I made my first Wimbledon final, I told my coach I needed to hit against a wall. This is bad for your tennis, he said, and so he would not allow it. In fact there are no walls to hit against at Wimbledon anyway.”
“So I fired my coach the morning of my final and the officials found a wall against which I could hit a ball at a nearby school. I am not sure that kind of obsession is a good thing,” shy Steffi said with a smile.
She was world number one, for a total of 377 weeks and has 22 grand slam singles titles. “If I’d been world number one for just one week I’d have died a happy man,” I told the audience, and the Prince.
“By the way, I’m coming to South Africa in about six months,” he said.
“Great! Give me a call and you can come have lunch,” I said, and promptly forgot about it.
Seven months later, my rather bemused secretary said, “The Palace is on the line for you.”
A very plummy, terribly British voice said: “His Royal Highness Prince Philippe says you invited him to lunch and he’d like to take up the offer…”
“Certainly,” I spluttered.
“He is coming with an entourage, and asks if he may…”
“Of course, they are all welcome.”
“Good,” said plummy voice. “There are 124 of them.”
Astounded silence from me, laughter from him.
“No, he just wants to bring the five or six cabinet ministers traveling with him.”
And so, sometime in Africa, it came to pass that Prince Philippe dined at The Star with assorted ministers of state.
Soon after our function, Belgium’s government failed spectacularly, leaving the country without any government for months.
On July 21 last year, my prince became King Philippe. He did say, in thanking me after our modest repast, that if I ever found myself in Belgium I should visit him at the palace. I have never taken up the offer. He was only the Crown Prince then.
Perhaps I’ll pop in one day just to ask him impertinently: “So, what does a King actually do?”
Royal visits are a big deal in Africa, whether lions to a waterhole or a crowned head of Europe to the southern tip. This particular tale of royalty visiting South Africa starts, strangely enough, in the snows of Davos at a lunch on obsession.
‘Is obsession always a good thing, or can it be bad’ was the title of a lunchtime session at the World Economic Forum at Davos, and Steffi Graf was one of seven scheduled speakers.
A tall, rather refined looking chap politely asked if he could occupy the chair next to mine.
“Of course, you needn’t ask, people can sit where they like,” I said.
“Ah, but you are important. Your name is writ large on the table, next to Ms Graf so I did need to ask.”
I chuckled. “Just the moderator of the session, not important at all,” I said.
“And who are you?” I asked, squinting at his large white card hanging from the participant ribbon everyone wears.
“Philippe,” he said.
“And what do you do, Philippe? I need to put you in a pigeonhole.”
“I’m a prince.”
“Oh? So what do you do?”
Slightly taken aback, he said, “I’m the Crown Prince of Belgium.”
“Yes, but what do you actually do? What is a Crown Prince’s job?”
“I help the government, I suppose. Actually I work pretty hard,” he reassured me, but now slightly aloof, I thought, realizing I’d been rather rude to royalty.
We were joined by the tennis wunderkind, lunch was underway, she spoke movingly of how she became obsessed with tennis, which brought her some happiness but also a lot of sadness as a child.
“When I was an unhappy girl because of fighting in the family, I would get over it by going out and hitting a ball against a wall,” said the tennis champion, world number one for 187 consecutive weeks.
“So when I made my first Wimbledon final, I told my coach I needed to hit against a wall. This is bad for your tennis, he said, and so he would not allow it. In fact there are no walls to hit against at Wimbledon anyway.”
“So I fired my coach the morning of my final and the officials found a wall against which I could hit a ball at a nearby school. I am not sure that kind of obsession is a good thing,” shy Steffi said with a smile.
She was world number one, for a total of 377 weeks and has 22 grand slam singles titles. “If I’d been world number one for just one week I’d have died a happy man,” I told the audience, and the Prince.
“By the way, I’m coming to South Africa in about six months,” he said.
“Great! Give me a call and you can come have lunch,” I said, and promptly forgot about it.
Seven months later, my rather bemused secretary said, “The Palace is on the line for you.”
A very plummy, terribly British voice said: “His Royal Highness Prince Philippe says you invited him to lunch and he’d like to take up the offer…”
“Certainly,” I spluttered.
“He is coming with an entourage, and asks if he may…”
“Of course, they are all welcome.”
“Good,” said plummy voice. “There are 124 of them.”
Astounded silence from me, laughter from him.
“No, he just wants to bring the five or six cabinet ministers traveling with him.”
And so, sometime in Africa, it came to pass that Prince Philippe dined at The Star with assorted ministers of state.
Soon after our function, Belgium’s government failed spectacularly, leaving the country without any government for months.
On July 21 last year, my prince became King Philippe. He did say, in thanking me after our modest repast, that if I ever found myself in Belgium I should visit him at the palace. I have never taken up the offer. He was only the Crown Prince then.
Perhaps I’ll pop in one day just to ask him impertinently: “So, what does a King actually do?”
Royal visits are a big deal in Africa, whether lions to a waterhole or a crowned head of Europe to the southern tip. This particular tale of royalty visiting South Africa starts, strangely enough, in the snows of Davos at a lunch on obsession.
‘Is obsession always a good thing, or can it be bad’ was the title of a lunchtime session at the World Economic Forum at Davos, and Steffi Graf was one of seven scheduled speakers.
A tall, rather refined looking chap politely asked if he could occupy the chair next to mine.
“Of course, you needn’t ask, people can sit where they like,” I said.
“Ah, but you are important. Your name is writ large on the table, next to Ms Graf so I did need to ask.”
I chuckled. “Just the moderator of the session, not important at all,” I said.
“And who are you?” I asked, squinting at his large white card hanging from the participant ribbon everyone wears.
“Philippe,” he said.
“And what do you do, Philippe? I need to put you in a pigeonhole.”
“I’m a prince.”
“Oh? So what do you do?”
Slightly taken aback, he said, “I’m the Crown Prince of Belgium.”
“Yes, but what do you actually do? What is a Crown Prince’s job?”
“I help the government, I suppose. Actually I work pretty hard,” he reassured me, but now slightly aloof, I thought, realizing I’d been rather rude to royalty.
We were joined by the tennis wunderkind, lunch was underway, she spoke movingly of how she became obsessed with tennis, which brought her some happiness but also a lot of sadness as a child.
“When I was an unhappy girl because of fighting in the family, I would get over it by going out and hitting a ball against a wall,” said the tennis champion, world number one for 187 consecutive weeks.
“So when I made my first Wimbledon final, I told my coach I needed to hit against a wall. This is bad for your tennis, he said, and so he would not allow it. In fact there are no walls to hit against at Wimbledon anyway.”
“So I fired my coach the morning of my final and the officials found a wall against which I could hit a ball at a nearby school. I am not sure that kind of obsession is a good thing,” shy Steffi said with a smile.
She was world number one, for a total of 377 weeks and has 22 grand slam singles titles. “If I’d been world number one for just one week I’d have died a happy man,” I told the audience, and the Prince.
“By the way, I’m coming to South Africa in about six months,” he said.
“Great! Give me a call and you can come have lunch,” I said, and promptly forgot about it.
Seven months later, my rather bemused secretary said, “The Palace is on the line for you.”
A very plummy, terribly British voice said: “His Royal Highness Prince Philippe says you invited him to lunch and he’d like to take up the offer…”
“Certainly,” I spluttered.
“He is coming with an entourage, and asks if he may…”
“Of course, they are all welcome.”
“Good,” said plummy voice. “There are 124 of them.”
Astounded silence from me, laughter from him.
“No, he just wants to bring the five or six cabinet ministers traveling with him.”
And so, sometime in Africa, it came to pass that Prince Philippe dined at The Star with assorted ministers of state.
Soon after our function, Belgium’s government failed spectacularly, leaving the country without any government for months.
On July 21 last year, my prince became King Philippe. He did say, in thanking me after our modest repast, that if I ever found myself in Belgium I should visit him at the palace. I have never taken up the offer. He was only the Crown Prince then.
Perhaps I’ll pop in one day just to ask him impertinently: “So, what does a King actually do?”
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