Grimm Truths: Fairest Amongst Unfairness

So my stepmother was, in a word, crackers. She was crazy. Absolutely out of her mind. 

She was obsessed with how she looked. Utterly mad about it. Walked around looking like she'd crashed head-first into a make-up counter. I couldn't even read fashion magazines in the house, because if I left them lying around, she'd draw moustaches on the models and scratch their eyes out with a biro. If I watched Fairytale Fashion Week on TV, she'd throw a brick through the screen. She was just so angry about it all, you know?

I mean, I understand that people can get a bit concerned about their looks - what with all those different sources telling us what "true" beauty is - but she just took it to a whole new level. She really wasn't that bad-looking... I think she just focused on her appearance way too much.  

She just had to go and get the mirror, didn't she? That was a crap investment, believe me. She nearly smashed the thing when she found out she'd been conned by the salesman. Magic mirror, my arse... she had to get a guy – usually one of the servants – to crouch behind it and talk to her the whole time. She spoke to the bloody thing as if it was a real person, you know: "Mirror, mirror, on the wall", blah blah blah blah blah blah blah, asking who was the best-looking lady in the land, and this guy would say, "Oh, you are, you are. You're smashing, gorgeous, brilliant, you are!" 

I mean, as if I couldn't see him. As if I couldn't see the poor sod crouched behind it. And all the while, she tried to claim it was magic. I think she was just trying to show off to her Tuesday morning coffee group. 

Anyway, as I got older, my own magnificent beauty started to shine through. Of course, the servant noticed it. (I mean, hey – who wouldn't?) So, one day, I slipped him a few gold pieces and whispered in his ear, "Go on, go on, say this, it will be hilarious", and gave him his lines. Then my stepmother comes in – waltzing in like "the big I am", as usual – goes up to the mirror, says "Mirror, mirror, on the wall", blahedy blahedy blah, and the guy goes, "Oh – Snow White." 

(I think he must have misheard what I said. After all, my name's Sandra.)

I laughed, OK? I thought it was funny. I'd thought she'd take it as a joke. In hindsight, that was probably incredibly naïve of me, because she didn't. Not one bit. 

She went berserk. Couldn't control herself. She figured out who was being talked about quick enough. She shattered the mirror, kicked the servant in the plums, and – get this – she tried to have me killed. 

She tried to have me killed. 

I couldn't believe it. I was just walking through the forest one morning, picking flowers – you know, just minding my own business, la di da di da – and this big burly huntsman walks up to me and tells me straight. "Sorry, love, I've been sent to kill you." 

He tried. He did try, but he wussed out in the end. Couldn't do it. Coward. I think both him and the servant ended up in the Emergency Room that night. I heard along the grapevine that he killed a pig, took its heart out and gave that to my stepmother, saying it was mine. She didn't notice at first – she was probably too busy getting shards of glass out of the good carpet. 

After that, I had to find a place to stay. Well, I could hardly go back to the castle, could I? 

I didn't know that anybody lived here. To me, it was just a cottage – a place to hide. I've heard that it's hard enough living with one man... there's seven of them here. The number of times I have to ask them to put the seat down! I end up nagging and nagging and nagging, saying everything seven times so they all hear it. 

I mean, I've got nothing against them. They're really nice people, and their hearts are definitely in the right place. I just wish they paid more attention to what I say sometimes. It's hard for me to make my voice heard. 

Still... they did take me in. That was kind of them: they weren't obliged to, after all.They're hard-working, too. They all have jobs in manual labour – mining, or building, or something like that. Mind you, since they're out all day, I'm the one who has to cook and clean for us all,and you can't really call that an easy option. Have you any idea how long it takes to cook meals and do chores for a house with eight people? Not to mention that five of them only eat well-cooked meat, two of them are coeliacs, and one of them has a full-blown panic attack if he so much as sees a parsnip. Trust me, my work is just as hard as theirs. 

I suppose things really aren't that bad – not when you compare it to having your stepmother trying to use your guts for bunting every five minutes. It's just that, every so often, somebody makes a silly comment about my hair being messy or my clothes being dirty. Well, I've no time to sort that out. Because o fall the cleaning and laundry and washing-up, I've hardly got a moment left for myself. I may have a princess' blood, but a princess' beauty takes work. Plus, they're hardly pristine themselves after a long shift – the smell's worse than a mudslide, pig sty and cattle market combined. 

At least I know that they'd defend me to the death. I found that out the hard way. My stepmother must have eventually clocked on about the huntsman fiasco, because she's tried to do me in a few more times now. She generally poisons things and sends them round. Writes little notes on pretty pieces of perfumed pink paper and sticks them on, saying things like,"I forgive you, my dear. Come home - let's start again." 

(Honestly... talk-show hosts have dealt with better cases than this.)

One time, she sent me this corset – some old-fashioned thing. I thought I'd try it on for size, just out of curiosity. So, I slipped it on over my clothes, and right from the get-go, I couldn't breathe. The sodding thing was enchanted. It crushed my lungs like an hand squeezing the last drops out of a waterskin. Thankfully, one of the lads knew CPR: he got the blasted brassiere off me and got my back on my feet. 

Of course, the mad bitch didn't stop there. An apple, she tried next. Came round dressed up like some poor elderly lady in this big hooded cloak. I was feeling pretty worn out after along morning of cobweb busting, so I had a bit of a dumb moment and manage to fall for it hook, line and sinker. She gave me this apple, told me to try it, and who'd have guessed it, it got trapped in my throat. I could feel my eyelids getting heavier and heavier, as if I was about to go to sleep. Thankfully, the guy who saved me from the corset also knew the Heimlich Manoeuvre – he got me to spit it back up. Must have been trained in First Aid.

I wonder if my future husband will expect me to cook and clean for him, too. Then again, I've been waiting for a prince to save me for quite a while now, and there's still no sign of him.It's trying my patience. 

Actually, I've been thinking about baking some pies and cakes to sell at the market, to earn myself a bit of money. I might be able to find my own place to live before too long. It wouldn't be much, but it would be a start. I think I could live prettily happily along, as long as I keep an eye out for little old ladies bearing gifts... notably underclothes and fruit baskets. And when my stepmother kicks the bucket, I can reclaim the castle and my rightful inheritance. I'm bound to be a better queen than she is.

That said, it'll be sad saying goodbye to the guys. They do care about me, and I care about them, even if they annoy me sometimes. Plus, I can read fashion magazines without worrying that'll they'll end up being destroyed...although the bikini sections of the summer editions go mysteriously astray.

The lads even bought me this nice little comb from a stall in the market. A present, to say "thank you" for taking care of the housework. It was from a new merchant, apparently - one they've not seen around before. I wonder if it's any good at detangling?

Ah, well - only one way to find out...