LONDON – In what can only be described as the most expensive game of hide-and-seek ever played with one’s own dignity, sources close to absolutely nobody confirm that the Duke of Sussex has reportedly been spotted once again aimlessly patrolling the rain-slicked pavements of the capital after dark, looking for something he lost somewhere between Montecito and 2018.
Neighbourhood watch groups across Kensington, Chelsea, and even the more forgiving bits of Shoreditch have issued a collective, exhausted plea: **Please, for the love of all that is holy and tax-efficient, keep this man on the other side of the Atlantic.
Eyewitness accounts (mostly from Uber drivers who’ve had to endure the world’s most awkward 4 a.m. passenger) paint a bleak but strangely cinematic picture: a lone figure in what appears to be last season’s Canada Goose jacket, baseball cap pulled low enough to qualify as structural engineering, wandering past shuttered gastropubs and 24-hour McDonald’s drive-thrus while muttering to himself about “the old days” and “when people still understood context.”
One bleary-eyed resident of Notting Hill, who wished to remain anonymous because “honestly, who has the energy,” described being jolted awake at 2:47 a.m. by an insistent doorbell followed by the unmistakable sound of someone trying (and failing) to whisper-shout through the letterbox:
“It’s me. Harry. I just wanted to… chat. About things. You know. The things. Is this the right house? Wait, do you have a therapist on speed dial? No? Okay, carry on then. Sorry about the buzzer.”
The bewildered homeowner did what any reasonable person would do: turned off the porch light, activated the Ring camera, and prayed the future Prince of Podcasts would move along before the neighbours started filming TikToks titled “When Your Royal Trauma-Dump Comes With Its Own Soundtrack.”
Royal commentators, never ones to miss an opportunity to state the blindingly obvious, have weighed in with their usual gravitas. “This is deeply concerning behaviour,” said one expert who appears on Sky News so often he has his own chair. “The man is clearly searching for something. Whether it’s his brain, his relevance, his security detail, or simply the ability to go five minutes without mentioning the word ‘legacy’ remains unclear.”
Meanwhile, back in sunny California, Meghan Markle is said to be “deeply focused on her next chapter,” which insiders claim involves writing a memoir about how unfair it is that people keep writing memoirs about her husband’s memoir. The couple’s Montecito neighbours report zero sightings of nocturnal doorbell-ringing dukes, leading many to conclude that the 3,000-mile buffer zone is performing its patriotic duty admirably.
Social media, as always, has responded with the sensitivity and nuance for which it is famous:
– “Bro really out here treating London like it’s his personal escape room with no clues and infinite lives”
– “Harry mate the brain you’re looking for isn’t on Google Maps”
– “This is what happens when you fire your entire protection team and replace them with vibes”
Metropolitan Police have so far declined to comment, though one officer was overheard muttering, “We’ve got knife crime, we’ve got protests, we’ve got football hooligans… and now we’ve got this ginger ghost doing existential tourism at 3 a.m. Brilliant.”
At press time, the Duke was reportedly last seen near Buckingham Palace, staring longingly through the railings like a man who just realised the Christmas lights are on someone else’s house this year. Palace sources insist there is “no cause for alarm,” adding that “the King is asleep, the corgis are asleep, literally everyone is asleep except this one bloke who won’t stop looking for meaning in the postcode SW1A 1AA.”
So to the residents of London, the message is simple: lock your doors, mute your doorbells, and perhaps invest in blackout curtains thick enough to block out both moonlight and misplaced royal anguish.
Because nobody — nobody — signed up for a late-night edition of “Where’s Wally: Trauma Edition.”
Sweet dreams, Britain. Try not to answer the door after midnight. It’s probably just existential dread wearing a baseball cap.
