Will they? Won’t they? Well, strictly speaking, they already have, but will they again? It’s a simple yes or no, mercifully unconnected to Scotland but very much on the union-separation axis. To wit: will Prince Harry and lovely Cressy get back together?
I almost said Chelsy, but I’m not sure many of you would have noticed if I had.
Besides, in this instance, I’m channelling Mrs Bennet (my Mrs Robinson days are safely behind me) and it’s more about the overarching principle than the personnel.
Harry, freshly 30 and currently single, is in want of a wife. He was courting Cressy, full name Cressida Bonas, for two years but they split up in April.
This was allegedly because the 25-year-old budding actress wanted to pursue her career, didn’t want a handsome red-headed royal cluttering up her dressing-room, and saw what happened to Grace Kelly.
This was all terribly modern and laudable, but not nearly as useful to society as rearing a brood of strawberry blond princelings and principessi and unveiling plaques.
Now the pair have been seen out and about at the cinema, and there are whispers that a reconciliation might be on the cards.
But just because they could, does it mean they should?
There have been constitutional precedents. Did not the whole absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder palaver work for the Duchess of Cambridge?
Yes, she was ignominiously dumped. But she wisely decided to bide her time. Oh, and be spotted out and about, more daringly attired than previously and having a riotous time.
And then she sat by the phone and waited for the call.
Talking of waiting, I dimly recall some columnists may have committed the lèse majesté of calling her “Waity Katy”, but thanks to Google’s new “right to be forgotten”, I am no longer one of them.
But I digress. Kate may have bagged the future king (I believe her alma mater, Marlborough, now runs seminars on the subject), but as any robber will tell you, it’s a bad idea to return to the scene of the crime.
I know whereof I speak. My one and only break up-make up ricochet was not my finest hour. I had been with my beau for two years when I ended the relationship, which I felt was getting a little too snoring, boring.
He pleaded. I demurred. I wanted to be single! I didn’t need a relationship to define me!
With unholy haste he found himself a new girlfriend. I saw them holding hands in the street. And did I wish them well? No. I almost threw up, took to my bed for a week, wept continuously and read Rilke in the original.
What’s that? Did I type out some of these poems and slip them through his letter box in an envelope scrawled with lipstick hearts? And douse it with Dior? I really don’t recall the details.
Then it was my turn to plead. Oh no, too slow! It was his turn to demur. Even though I’d lost a stone from the trauma (useful sisterhood intel: men don’t actually notice these things. The swine.)
Resigned, I pined. He spelled it out to me in a blunt letter. I construed his words as a sign of hope. Then, a year later, he called me on Christmas Day.
My mother was adamant I shouldn’t consider for a moment getting back with him. He was awful. And a Leftie. And his haircut was terribly odd.
To be fair, her animosity was based on his appalling misjudgment when they first met; initially, he thought that she would appreciate a lively political debate. She didn’t. He assumed that we were sharing a bedroom. We weren’t.
Finally, he set about impressing her – by having the temerity to beat her at Scrabble. Really. I mean, really?
She died a few months later, so never did see how it panned out. Of course I listened to her advice, as a dutiful daughter should. Then I disregarded it, moved in with him, got a dog, a house, a wedding ring and two children.
So you go for it Cressy! You get your man. I know you want to go on the stage, but surely a world stage would be even better?
Besides, if there’s one film worth an update it has to be The Prince and the Showgirl.