Looking for a royal role model? Got one for you.

I’ve read that the Guccis – or perhaps it’s the Puccis – have a modest flat for rent in NYC, for $60K/month. (Central Park views, natch.)

One would think that this place would make apt digs for Prince Dimitri Karageorgevich, P.D. to his friends, the offspring of Prince Alexander of Yugoslavia and Princess Maria Pia of Savoy. P.D. -  hey, he seems so darned approachable, I consider him at least a pre-friend –was written up in an article on NY-area royals in The New York Times the other day. But P.D. lives more modestly, in a two bedroom apartment on Sutton Place.

But, like the Guccis (and the Puccis), he does work-work for a living, designing jewelry, like a $620,000 necklacee that – swank as Sutton Place is – would probably be better worn in the Gucci/Pucci pad.

A petty, peasant-minded person might ask how one  can be the prince or princess of places that don’t actually exist as any sort of royal-type entity – and I’d have to put both Yugoslavia and Savoy in that category. But I will leave such a question to a petty, peasant-minded person.

Instead, I will point out the P.D. is listed by the Royal House of Wikipedia as the “1,375th in the line of succession to the British throne.” Which means if something really awful happened, and Princes Charles, William, and Harry, and the 1,371 others ahead of P.D.,were kidnapped by aliens, or all decided to pull an Edward and abdicate the throne if and when QEII passes on to the Palace in the Sky, P.D. is the man who would be king.

Which means he’d have to swap in his old coat o’ arms (above), which looks rather like something on a no-touch vase in a museum, for the frankly much more fun and light-touch one of the British royals, with its nice bit of whimsy and Wizard of Oz-iness.  But, of course, this is not likely to happen. And unless something mega happens in Bosnia, Serbia, Croatia, Herzegovina, etc., to happy-family them back into Yugoslavia. Or if Italy decides they’ve had it with Berlusconi, and the dukes, earls, princes, and princesses come stompin’ back to the Savoy, P.D., alas, will remain a jeweler and social prince-about-town.

Which is, frankly, not as easy as it looks.

First, there are the paparazzi.

Now, I don’t imagine that, in Manhattan, they plague P.D. as much as they would if he were in Yugoslavia or Savoy. Or as much as if he were part of Brangenlina or Tomkat. But they have been known to shutterbug him – especially when he was a lad at boarding school. His mother advised looking bored, and “today [he] continues a studied expressionlessness.”

Then there’s putting up with “impromptu guests like the aged lady-in-waiting for Princess Marianne Bernadotte of Sweden”. Impromptu guests can happen a lot when you’re related to all 11 reigning families in Europe. (Quick. Count them.)

Plus,

He is flooded with party invitations and has appeared on best-dressed lists in Vanity Fair. He has a cameo in the coming movie “Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps.”

And it could well be a full-time job, living as P.D. does in one of the poser capitals of the free world, just outing faux royals.

At one Manhattan dinner, Prince Dimitri recalled, a man who called himself Michael de Savoia claimed to be the son of the King of Italy; when P. D. said that that would make him his mother’s brother, Mr. de Savoia abruptly fled. Another time, a Frenchman named Patrick D’Orleans said he was related to the Count of Paris, whom Prince Dimitri pointed out was related to his godmother.

“He turned bright red, stood up and left,” P. D. said.

Well played, P.D.

I hate, hate, hate when someone swans into a dinner par-tay and claims to be the son of the King of Italy.

At least you don’t have to worry about the fraudsters when you’re at a family wedding, like the one “where the Queen Mother kept playing practical jokes and “her eyes were always glistening.””

Ah, the ginny-gin-gin will do that to you, but I do understand that the old gal was a gas.

The hardest part of being a royal, one would think, is that:

“There’s always the duality…There’s the prince and the man.”

Gosh. That damned duality. It must be like being a minotaur – half man, half bull – or something. A tough life.

But P.D. believes in toughing it out – unlike the late Princess Di, who annoyed him with her public little pity parties.

“You can’t just go around and feel sorry for yourself,” he said.

“It’s all about marketing and keeping the crowds dreaming,” Prince Dimitri added. “Americans have a very Hollywood view of royals. They don’t realize we have a very military view of life. We have to be role models.”

Yes, P.D., you do have to keep my crowd dreaming and be a role model.

Certainly, I know in my own case that, when I go looking for a role model, I look no further than the nearest throne.

Others may take the cheap and easy route, and go off half-cocked, emulating someone who brought about world peace. Or discovered a cure for some wicked bad disease. Or invented the gizmo that everyone’s plugged into. Or gave up a life of ease to swab lepers. Or, worse yet, trained long and hard so that he could hit a little round ball better than anyone else.

But you know what?

Half of these so-called role models go feet of clay on us.

Sure, some royals end up letting you down. Even I have to admit that Prince Charles as a role model went a bit south for me when that voice-mail came out about his wanting to be Camilla’s tampon. And I stopped emulating Prince Harry for a while when he went to the costume party dressed as a Nazi.

So far, however, P.D. is holding. (Admittedly, I have only been aware of his existence since yesterday. But, as we have learned over the years, it’s pretty much one day at a time with role models.)

In fact, I feel so strongly about P.D. that, if I were single, I would consider him husband material.

At 51, however, Dimitri is a) not looking – he considers marriage a ‘prison’ (I suppose, he has a point; but, then again, if you really think about it, almost everything in life you step toe into for more than a sec has prison potential);  and b) would only marry another royal.

Not being all that fond of snobbism in my role models, I am a bit unhappy about this. But, for a man in his position, I suppose the girl on the arm at the next royal wedding should be someone who can talk about the last time they saw the Thurn und Taxis, or the Sturm und Drangs, or whomever.  Who knows when to curtsy, and whether it’s ever okey-dokey to call Prince Charles (P.C.?) anything other than “Sir”.

But the Rogers do have our own coat of arms, which I know is authentic because I’ve seen it on key chains and mugs in souvenir shops throughout Ireland.  And I bet if we looked back far enough, I’m descended from Cú Chulainn, Queen Medb (that’s Queen Maeve to you, buster), and Brian Boru.

So there.