Poor, delusional Prince Harry is now the handbag carrier

It was International Women’s Day yesterday and on this day Meghan posted a picture of Prince Harry sitting on the white leather seat of a launch with Lilibet curled up on his knee, recognisable only by her red hair.

Just another snapshot of the Sussexes’ perfect California life you might think. There they are, living the dream, free, rich, not a single dreary hospital wing opening hanging over them, no unglamorous Easter at Sandringham on the horizon. They’ve done it.

Or, alternatively, you might think what a lot of us have been thinking for a while (daily since the launch of Meghan’s Netflix series With Love, Meghan): what’s going to happen to Harry? Where’s Harry in all this? The solitary man, head sunk on his little girl’s head deep in thought … what lies ahead for him?

• Oh, no Meghan! You’ve just made being a host more hellish than ever

Because this is Meghan’s time. The second series of With Love, Meghan has just been confirmed (there are strong rumours that it’s already in the can) and like it or hate it there is no denying that Meghan’s whole life has been working towards this point: this pinnacle of pretty, polished, professionalism with notes of wellness and spiritualism. She’s now unstoppable and adoring Harry is already looking like a spare part in her new incarnation as a lifestyle icon.

If you have watched the series to the end — and done so partly for the few seconds featuring Harry used in all the trailers — you will know that’s it. Blink and you’ll miss him. Not only that, he’s wedged at the back of the crowd of well-wishers at her signing off party, hanging back deliberately so as not to in any way imply that he has had anything to do with Meghan’s success. He seems diminished, unsure of what’s expected of him. Old Harry’s USP was a teasing charm, but when you’re expected to play the role of awestruck courtier along with all the other extras, that will kill your buzz. Meanwhile Meghan is off arranging thecruditésthoughtfully, intoxicated with her own power to elevate (a word she may now have trademarked), eyes blazing. You could almost forget she was married.

Then there’s Harry’s life in Montecito. Yes he’s got his biennial Invictus Games and yes that series about polo was a joint Sussex project but then there’s the everyday stuff to be endured. Look away now if you don’t care what happens to a delusional prince, but consider for a moment how much Prozac you would need to cope with the world Harry now inhabits if you were a Normal, let alone a male member of the British upper class — Eton educated, Army trained, Boujis-inducted, brought up on kedgeree and summer pudding, team sports and house parties.

The way they spend their days! Is he playing mahjong or is that just the fun times for the girls? What about five-a-side on a Tuesday? What about watching the rugby … who’s he doing that with? Because James Corden’s not there any more and I bet he’s not allowed to have any of his old British muckers to stay in case he goes off-piste and plays Fuzzy Duck, or is caught roaring with laughter at something Tiggy reminded him of BMT (Before Meghan’s Time).

Who are Harry’s friends? Meghan’s hairdresser? Meghan’s chef friend she met when scouting for chefs for With Love, Meghan? He likes that Argentinian polo player, but he lives in Argentina. And what about family? There’s Meghan’s mum, Doria, and that’s it. No brother, no father, no father-in-law, no cousins for Archie and Lili. Just a cold yawning gap filled with gorgeous influencers and quirky actresses who all, by their own admission, outsource everything and behave like they’re taking crack when they have a margarita. I feel homesick just thinking about it. The endless emoting and fake joy and lashings of food that no-one’s going to eat because this is LA, served in that soulless garden with the garden station full of polished trowels. It’s so alien it’s scary.

Has Harry got the fear? Does he know he’s on the cusp of becoming a handbag carrier?

The sad thing is that could have worked if he weren’t so isolated, in the wrong country, at the wrong time with no-one to call up and only a sunfilled Easter brunch with thoughtful touches to look forward to. Poor Harry.

The magic word for all men

Some good news for married men who are looking for an easier life. Research scientists from the University of North Carolina have found that “women married to men who were willing to admit they were wrong tended to be more satisfied with their marriages”. Say sorry and it may save your relationship, say the boffins.

Well yes. But who doesn’t know this? All the men I know — husbands, stepsons, brothers, nephews — say sorry at the drop of a hat. If you call out their name from the kitchen they will answer tentatively and then you’ll shout “the freezer door is open again” and they’ll reply “Sorry!” before you can say “and another thing”.

Unless there’s a hint of surliness or “what now?’ about the Sorry, it works like a dream and you both know it. Husband comes back from the supermarket, he’s forgotten the thing he wouldn’t write down, and you’re about to go hatstand when he floors you with a heartfelt “God, sorry!” And Boom! You’re happy again. Who needs a leg of lamb for Sunday lunch anyway! That one magic word will lower your blood pressure faster than stroking a donkey. Get the tone right and the timing (fast as you can get it out) and it’s a bit like “I love you” only you can use it all the time without it seeming weird.

And if you’ve seriously messed up (say, borrowed your wife’s keys and promptly lost them) “Sorry! I’m such an idiot” will always make it better.

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