So our young prince “who has been practicing long enough”, is due to wed Kate. I missed this entirely but thankfully someone stepped in to update me before I heard it on Wait Wait Dont Tell Me which is where I get most of my news in a somewhat skewed form – through an hour glass backwards. Where else are you going to hear that one of the Secret Service’s first priorities was to remove all the coconuts from the palm trees along President Obama’s route in India?

This week  Peter Segal, who I love almost as much as Ian Hislop, commented somewhat snarkily that Prince Charles was not the one to talk about practicing given the amount of the time he has spent practicing to be head honcho of the British throne.

But the ripples of the announcement trickled down to 5105 Worthington Drive. I found my youngest daughter in tears at bedtime. Some enthusiastic neighbour had described “Prince William” as “her prince”. She thought, therefore, somewhat logically that she was “his princess” and that they would be getting married. After an exhaustive interview with the tousled head on the top bunk, I gleaned that her tears stemmed from a fear of getting married and having to kiss someone on the lips.

This is all born from far too much Mamma Mia and ultimately from the far too lax rules about movie viewing in this house. As though to prove it, I returned home yesterday to find my eight year old introducing our sweet 14 year old babysitter to her first session of James Bond. There had been an unseemly scuffle, Rosalind had wanted Goldfinger and Puffy The Man with the Golden Gun.