A warning to all fairy story princes

My adapted version of an old tale was printed in the Times recently as one of the winners in their 'Mini Love Story' competition. Enjoy.

Cinderella, a downtrodden, pasty-looking thing, lived with her two sisters and stepmother. Despite being downtrodden and pasty-looking, Cinderella was still a bloody sight more attractive than they were. Granted, she got sooty from sweeping the grate, but it was pointless getting dolled up anyway when you never got invited anywhere. The only time she got out was to do her NVQ Level 1 in Broom and Mop Operative Essential Skills. She’d struggled with some components, not being that bright.

One day, though, an invitation came from the Prince. “Dear Householder,” it began, which led to an undignified scramble between the two sisters and the stepmother who each paid a third of the rent. Still, it turned out that the party had happened the night before. They’d only just got the invitation because of a postal strike.

Cinderella watched her evil relations’ disappointment with great interest because, unbeknown to them, she’d heard about the party, slipped out, gatecrashed it, met the prince, found out that they shared a love for beautiful shoes, and had agreed to elope with him. The only reason she was back in the house, looking suitably downtrodden and pasty, was because the Prince, who’d done bird and was now more careful these days, had convinced her to act normal for a while before jacking her stepmother’s jewellery, credit cards and new Ipod Nano. That night she was to sneak out again, leg it and meet him in Wetherspoons where he would issue her with a new identity supplied for a small fee from contacts in Eastern Europe. She was to get a new name with a Z in it, he told her.

“Zinderella?” she’d suggested, excitedly, and, for the first time, the Prince wondered whether the same taste in footwear was a secure basis for a relationship.