Pippa Middleton at the tennis. Photo: Reuters
DEAR Pippa Middleton,
Hi there. Look, I know it's not a good time what with that messy fallout from your friend pointing a pistol at the paparazzi from a car you were in this week. But that is the very reason I've decided to reach out to you. It's time.
No, you don't know me, nor should you. But by the sheer fact I live on this planet, I haven't been able to avoid you. As a result, I feel I know you intimately - too much in fact.
I have not so much checked out your bum as studied it in minute detail. I have judged every outfit you have worn since that wedding - not hard considering the photo editor at Britain's Daily Mail estimates 400 pictures of you cross his desk every day. But most of all, I have felt sorry for you. You see, in my view, your life sucks like gravity and it's about to get worse.
You probably don't see yet that you have stepped into a kind of hell that Dante couldn't conjure, because you've had a pretty good run up until now. But what I see has happened Pip is that you've peaked too early. There is nowhere to go but down after the high of being dubbed ''Her Royal Hotness'' and having your bum regarded as something Michelangelo would have carved if he had got around to Doris after David.
You see, you are now stuck in the cycle of celebrity and, sadly, it means it's time for the wheel to turn. Your poppy has grown too tall and too bright and now its time for the machete to be wielded and hack it back to its roots. Only it won't be in one swift strike. Oh no, it doesn't happen like that. I fear you are to be pruned slowly and painfully.
I have worked for celebrity magazines and know their modus operandi well. Build 'em up, knock 'em down - and if they manage to somehow get back on their feet, start the cycle all over again.
Let's take your pert little bottom, shall we? I started to fret for you the minute it was admired. At 28 all is still good for you, but gravity and the ageing process are quite frankly the pits in this particular area, let me tell you, my own behind a case in point. But the ridiculous fact is that this very minute, hundreds of magazine editors are on their knees praying you get cellulite, and literally thousands of paparazzi are focused on capturing any sign of a ripple in your rump. If I were you, Pip, I'd probably run for a burqa and a bunker, and not look back.
You think William's mum, Diana, had it bad? These days there's the internet to contend with, along with smartphones making every member of the public a potential paparazzo. You couldn't be more of a target if you had a bullseye painted on that famous behind of yours, Pip. I'm not trying to scare you, just prepare you.
Look, I agree wholeheartedly that this is not your fault, nor is it fair. Yes, it wasn't you who married the Queen's grandson. Yes, you are just an innocent commoner bystander who has literally hitched a ride on the royal train. Hell, the palace doesn't even give you any security, which I'd be pretty peeved about if I were you.
Until Kate and William made it official, you were just living the life of a ''normal'' 20-something - a bit like Prince Harry. But in this regard you are a victim of big, fat, sexist double standard. You see, your mischievous pal Harry is allowed to be just that, a bit of a scallywag, doing what boys do. But you stumble out of a club at dawn with an eligible man on your arm and there's mass clutching of pearls at your shameless behaviour.
A big part of me wants to say, ''You go, girl, live your life to its fullest and don't give a damn what anyone thinks. Be a feminist warrior.'' But I'd be a hypocrite because I reckon I'd be in a foetal ball within months in your place, rocking in a dark corner dribbling, ''Just leave me alone.''
You see, to be famous and carefree these days you have to have Kim Kardashian's hide to survive. And we all know hers is a lot bigger than yours. I mean, the woman's celebrity debut was via a particularly nasty leaked sex video and still she shows her face at the opening of an envelope. They make these Gen Y fame seekers damn tough. I'm not sure you make the grade. I sure know I wouldn't.
Basically, what I'm saying is that in the circus that is your new life, you've gone from the parading on the back of palominos to being shoved head-first into a cannon and I fear you haven't mastered how to land.
I don't think Kate's going to be much help either. She's had eight years to learn the royal ropes and once she produces a Windsor heir, will be the new Mother Teresa, only in better frocks. You, my friend, well, people are complaining you don't even have a ''proper'' job. The gun incident and the sexy fancy dress Euro toff birthday party you didn't leave until 6am won't have helped your cause.
My advice is to visit William's estranged aunt Fergie and have a bit of a chat with her about the repercussions of being a royal who refuses to toe the line. I'd take a nightie and toothbrush because I reckon you'll be there a while. And if Fergie can't help, I want you to know there is always a cold chardonnay in my fridge for you, Pip. Just whatever you do, don't bring any photographers.
Wendy Squires is a Melbourne journalist, editor and author.