OUT OF THE BLUE

Once upon a time, an attractive young woman from a Los Angeles neighborhood described as “modest” and “interesting” decided to become a princess.

Duchess, actually. Still impressive.

Sure, hon. Don’t we all.

Only two methods work: Be born into a royal family or, more likely, marry a prince. Hey, movie star Grace Kelly did it.

Never mind that this prince has wiry red hair and a wild streak. Its story line echoes those found in literature pre-dating the pyramids, the Bible, the tabloids.

So the presumption is that current maiden with the alliterative name took the same yellow brick road to fame: wrangle an introduction, hang around, smile a lot.

She met her prince, Harry by name, on a blind date — yeah, really — arranged by a mutual friend whose identity has been kept secret. Within weeks the smitten kittens were off on a camping trip to Botswana while the British press panted at the fence. The royal family managed smiles in public, gnawed their nails over tea and crumpets (biscuits passing as English muffins).

American! Actress! Divorced! Black! was whispered at polo matches. But to their credit, the royals stiffened those upper lips and, in true British style, carried on.

And carried on, to co-habitation, then marriage, sealing the deal with the birth of red-haired Prince Archie, followed by Princess Lilibet, strategically named for her great-granny, the Queen.

Thus ensconced, our American TV actress Meghan pulled off her biggest coup, many years in the planning: relocate from smoggy London to a sunny California neighborhood where her $20 million estate felt comfier than Buckingham Palace.

But beware, fair lady: Your glamour is shrinking while the bills, they groweth apace. The tennis court needs resurfacing. And the guesthouse could use a rainforest shower head. Oprah can’t dig you out of this one.

Then, a brotherly plot . . . er, feud . . . escalated over security during a planned trip to introduce grandkids to King Charles, who is ill. He received them at one of his country estates, more suitable than having the monarch show up at a bouncy-house birthday party. Can’t you just see Camilla in face paint?

All the while, Prince Harry was being ripped from the bosom of his bloodline, with sweet Kate (from non-royal mercantile wealth) doing most of the ripping, or so the press chatters. Otherwise a cold shoulder here, an unkind remark there, with little to no brotherly love emanating from William, whose frown shouts “off with his head.”

Reconciliation? Fat chance, shared the California fashionista who can hardly pay the pool boy.

What a kettle of Dover sole, fast becoming rather tiresome, enlivened only by a parade of glossy TV specials à la Diana and Charles, JFK Jr. and wife Carolyn, with subheads proclaiming Americans “can’t let go the monarchy.”

Yet every little girl dreams of being a princess. At least a Duchess, dressed to kill, who still calls the shots.