Little Princesses

Saturday 17th October

I have been meaning to write about this for some time but was prompted by my flight back to Stansted on Thursday.  While waiting in the departure lounge, surely the most desolate place in Bergerac, I spotted her.  She was a Princess.  Princess Aleya to be precise, from Frozen, the Disney film which seems to have taken over every small child under 10 (I know it was Princess Aleya because I had to sit three times through the wretched film a year ago with one of my granddaughters).  Dressed all in blue (makes a change from Pink I suppose) she looked every inch the Princess.  Or what we (and those at Disney) have made us think Princesses look like. This little Princess was prancing about, much to her mother’s annoyance and kept climbing over and under seats and annoying other travellers.  She must only have been about four or five but I gave her a wide berth.

Not wide enough, as unfortunately she had the seat next to me on the plane.  Thank goodness she wasn’t behind me, as she constantly either kicked the seat in front or undid and refastened the tray in front of her.  Her mother was hapless and hopeless and had no more control of her than I do of the dogs when out walking – but at least they are on leads.  The mother was desperately placating her, and exclaiming that she was making her Mummy sad and upset, and please please please sit still.  Which of course she didn’t.  I tried my best to ignore her and resisted the temptation to tell the mother she needed a good smack (which of them I am not sure).

At last the flight was over and I could escape this right Royal little pain of a Princess.  But what is it with parents, why are we indulging them in this fantasy?  The whole point of being a Princess is surely that everyone else patently is not one.  But now they are all allowed to be Princesses, with pretty dresses, nail varnish, fake jewelry and even make-up.  And when they grow up and realise that the world is a hard and gritty place with little room for Princesses, what will happen then?  Or is it just a childish fantasy, an innocent indulgence.  I wonder.  I actually wonder more at the sanity of the parents, my own children included, who pander to this nonsense.  Ah, but then I am just a curmudgeonly old commoner (my mother obviously never let me be a Prince), and commoner than most I can assure you.