For several years the Danes have been wondering whom Daisy would marry. Otherwise known as Princess Margrethe, 26, Daisy will one day inherit the throne of Denmark. Now she has chosen her consort: Count Henri Jean Marie Andre de Laborde de Monpezat, 32, a French diplomat whom she met in London three years ago. Briefly leaving his post as third secretary of the French embassy in London to meet his future in-laws, the count called on King Frederik IX and Queen Ingrid in Copenhagen, practiced his Danish, and arranged his conversion from Catholicism to the Evangelical Lutheran Church.

For frail tykes born two months premature, Venezuela's Prieto Quintuplets have developed into quite a gang. "They are terrible," groaned Mama Ines Maria Cuervo de Prieto as the five boys celebrated their third birthday with the neighbor children in Maracaibo. "Anyone who stays with them for more than one hour will go out of his mind. When they're together, they're a catastrophe." The trouble is, sighed Mama, they're always together. "Each is different," she mused. "Mario is the strongest. Otto gets mad easy. Juan Jose is the smallest, but he's a fighter." Juan Jose will soon have one more sibling to squabble with. Another Prieto--the eighth, all told--is due in March.

In Latin America, the name is so common that no one blinks when U.S. Ambassador to El Salvador, Raul Castro, 50, introduces himself. But in the U.S., the handle can be a headache, particularly in places like Miami, hotbed of militant Cuban exiles, where the name of Fidel's kid brother and Defense Minister is anathema. "I was in Miami not long ago," the Mexican-born U.S. career diplomat told the Nucleus Club in Phoenix, "and 20 minutes after I checked into a hotel, the word got around that Raul Castro was in town. I was afraid to walk across the lobby. From now on, when I travel from El Salvador to Washington, I'll go by way of New Orleans."

It was probably the most calamitous shearing since Samson's, but Beatle John Lennon, 25, was brave about it. In a quiet little operation on Lueneburger Heide, West Germany, he suffered through the unique experience of a normal haircut to prepare for his role as a British Tommy in a film called How I Won the War. When the perspiring barber had finally chopped through the thatch, Beatle aides swept up the locks and sent them off to a German teen magazine for distribution to the faithful. "It's all right," said John. "I've got a new face now." The new face looked absolutely naked, but he figures that his mop will be normally back to seed in a month or two. Meantime, he might travel incognito for a change, or fob himself off as Peter Sellers.

Now that she presides serenely over London's mod fashion establishment at the mellowing age of 32, Designer Mary Quant, the grand old lady of miniskirts and hippy styles, decided that it was time to reminisce. In Quant by Quant, a precocious autobiography, she gaily details the way she broke into hot couture with her husband and business manager, Alexander Plunket Greene. "We were mad; the whole thing was hysterical," writes Mary, recalling the opening of their famous Bazaar shop in Chelsea. "The trade ignored us, they laughed at us openly." But she gives high fashion the needle right back. Mary observes happily: "Quite a number of the women who are awarded the annual title of 'best dressed women' are square."

No sooner had Irish nationalists blown down Dublin's famed Nelson pillar in O'Connell Street last March, 50 years after the Easter rebellion, than the great stone head of Admiral Horatio Nelson himself disappeared, hijacked by a group of Irish art students. The boys sold it for $840 to London Antique Dealer Benjamin Gray, who carried it back to England and set it up in his shop. Now Gray has decided to return to Ireland the 220-lb. souvenir of the great column that had stood for 157 years as a symbol of English domination. But, faith, nobody wanted it. "I even tried the Prime Minister and the lord mayor," said Gray. Finally a few members of the Dublin City Council agreed to meet Gray in a perfunctory little ceremony in O'Connell Street, where they accepted the head and dragged it away in a sack to storage.

It wasn't as if Dad couldn't spare the dough. Oil Billionaire J. Paul Getty, 73, might have settled the matter out of his petty-cash box if he chose. But Gordon Getty, 32, a real estate investor, composer, poet and the youngest of his four living sons, felt compelled to file what he called "a friendly suit" against the old man, asking San Francisco's Superior Court to award him $7,000,000 as his share of the stock dividends accumulated by a trust fund that J. Paul's mother, Sarah Getty, had established in 1934 for her son and grandchildren. Over the years, the trust's original capital of $3,500,000 has been lucratively multiplying under J. Paul's administration, partly because he has not been dispensing the earnings to the family. Now the fund is worth nearly $300 million, and Gordon thinks the law should decide whether he and his brothers are entitled to dip into the trust. He added: "I have the utmost respect and affection for my father."

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