Jubilee Princess

With our penchant for being startlingly greedy and our remarkable ability to jump without any good reason on the nearest slow moving band wagon, the Queen's Diamond Jubilee was a celebration that would not be passing myself, nor my equally unprincipled daughter by. Okay, we're not exactly Royalists. But neither are we Republicans. So, in the interests of fairness and equality, I don't see why fence sitting, unscrupulous, disreputable commoners such as our immoral selves should miss out on a right good knees up just because we don't buy into the whole idea of having values or beliefs. 

Enter Betty's organised, creative, hard-working Godmother Sarah (the girl needs to be taught those qualities by someone), with suggestions of Jubilee afternoon tea in Manchester. The event would involve chatting and eating, with a little token flag waving in recognition of our sponsor. Can I eat and wave a flag at the same time? Yes? Then WE. ARE. IN.

*does a little dance in honour of scones*

Ladies who lunch. Jubilee-stylee.

Now. Study this picture. Study it closely.
Okay, and your question is this. Which lady is massively overdressed? No, no, not Sarah, on the right. She is actually half Filipino, so don't be fooled into believing she put that exotic look together especially.
No, no, not Jean, in the centre on the left. She may be the same age as the Queen, but didn't intentionally set out to upstage her fellow diners with a regal looking blouse and a pair of Bobby Dazzler earrings.
Keeping looking...ah! Yep. There you go. It's the Poop. Dressed in a hugely over the top puffball gown which is supported by layer upon layer of net, silk, chiffon and 'what a little princess' pretention.
But just wait.

In my defence, I have not suddenly been overcome with the desire to photograph my little girl sitting in a plant pot dressed as a flower, nor have I recently felt the urge to sit her peeping out of my handbag like a small designer dog (though this is mainly because it is Cath Kidston and she would definitely break the strap). She is not attired so preposterously because I wish for her to be assumed a WAG baby, or because it is Whit week and I have suddenly been stricken with pangs to pander to religious tradition.
She is wearing this absurdly showy garb because it was supposed to be her Christening dress, she didn't wear it, and I am getting my money out of the thing come Hell or high bloody water.



When I introduced her to it in the morning, the Babygrow Kid eyed it with a scepticism I was proud to have already instilled in one so young. She tried to dodge the head hole, but to no avail. Zipping the thing up aggressively before she found the opportunity to break free, she realised she was saddled with the monstrosity until Mum saw fit.
My "you will wear it lady, and will like it" face was the tipping point of the confrontation, as, having played before, she slumped dejected on her changing mat, admitting total defeat.

So amid the jam, the chat, the cream and the photographs, Boo pranced about, being cute and adorable and not looking a jot like the hoodied up little madam I'm used to seeing beside me.

The Poop, with the Queen's decoy, Jeanie Jeanson.

Then with actual Queenie herself; clearly shocked that
she had darted all the way up from London to fit in strumpets with us.

It was a gorgeous afternoon spent in the presence of exquisite food and passable company. I was able to palm Betty off on the table of suckers who were not quick enough to realise that we would be sharing the platter of food placed temptingly among us, and I tucked in, quite literally, for Britain.
Between more than my fair share of cake and tuning out any bad behaviour I should be responsible for correcting, I was able to really notice my daughter.
That way you sometimes do, when you are at a distance from one that you love.
She looked so beautiful.
So cherubic.
So angelic.
So perfect.
So ours.
And she made me incredibly proud.

Until someone passed her back to me and I realised that she'd had a dead big poo, half of it was hanging out of the side of her frilly knickers, and I'd just touched it. With me bare hands.
She certainly knows how to put a stop to finger foods. That girl has clearly learned how to hit me where it hurts.

The Poop.
Soiling for Queen and Country.

Betty and her Bum 1, Mum and a ridiculous dress 0.