PRINCE AND PRINCESSES MARRY WITH MILLIONS CHEERING, SOLDIERS MARCHING, A GOWN OF LACE AND SILK, A TIARA, FOOTMEN AND COACHES -WELL, ABSOLUTELY- ............. WHAT ELSE WOULD YOU EXPECT WHEN YOU ARE 4?

It was a run of the mill Cinderella experience for X, she probably wondered why her mum seemed strangely moved and close to booing. Her mum was a church chorister who spent every saturday of her childhood marrying people, three a day for 25p per service. The music today: Rutter. That was great! But also: seeing my gorgeous, four-year-old daughter, who totally believes in true prince and princess true love, see a coach with horses and a princess in silk and satin, I surprised myself - no, shocked myself- by the way I glorified in it. It made me suddenly realise that, much as I might pretend to myself that I'm above that kind of thing, that I measure my life against the Royals far more than I thought. This little wedding, that I'd not been that bothered about, suddenly brought back memories of my grandmother, my mother... all kinds of memories.

For me it was Pippa Middletona that did it. She looked so gorgeous and supported her sister so utterly sexily and selflessly. Sexy and selfless. That's a sexy new sister vibe: Pippa Middleton - I take my fascinator off to you. I called my sister and apologised for refusing point blank to go to a spa with my sister before her wedding. And for refusing to be a senior maid of honour. And - a point that caused my mother not talk to me on the night after the event and for some weeks after that - didn't even bother to make sure my pen had black ink in it before the register signing. My shame is recorded in blue in the church records. I called up my sister today and told her how sorry I was. She seemed a bit surprised.

In the afternoon X's bestest friend, well, actually , she sometimes calls him her prince, came to play. And the most brilliantest thing in the world is that X's most bestest friend is the son of my bestest friend. And we both have adopted out children. What a coincidence?! Well, the children found each other first, but really it is just so good to have a play date for 4 year olds that over 40 year olds feel as good about it. And X's best friends mum is about to marry X's best friend's dad, so we can talk weddings and adoption all afternoon. She said a magic word to me: 'redemption'. And then I knew that she and I understood eachother in ways that you don't expect in everyday life. We were just brewing another cuppa when we realised the two children had been quiet for at least five minutes. I strode upstairs and found them naked and giggling in a hot bath together, four little half botties gleaming at me and them both roaring with laughter.

I’m no doctor, but my best tests for being ill are: 1) Sweets 2) Does the bedroom suddenly seems like a nice place to be?

X and I went home over Easter and X became ill. I shouldn’t say home should I, because it’s my parents home, and I have never even lived there. But it’s where I am a child myself. Anyway, X became ill. The horrible cold clenching fingers squeezing the tummy and the cold sweat down the back type illness: and that was just me worrying. Her temperature was blazing. X looked at the sliver of light in between the curtains and said she liked this bedroom. I knew then she was ill. You always look at the curtains and think about the room when you are ill don’t you? If I think about the terrible dose of flu I had when I was a little girl what I mainly remember is looking at my painting of the English country hedgerow that was on the wall opposite my bed. I hung onto that painting for three solid days of headbanging misery until apparently I looked over at the bedside table and saw that here was a packet of Rowntree’s pastilles on the side. My mother must have thought I was dying to allow them to be sitting there. I asked if I could have one and then they knew that I was better.

My mother and I took X to the doctor and I asked if she would come in with us but she said no, the doctor might get irritated with two of us asking questions. Doctors hold the power of the prescription pad over old age pain remedies. “ But you might remember something else that I forget,” I protested. But she wouldn’t come.

X answered most of the doctor’s questions well and let him prod her. She must have felt ill. She even did a wee sample. One by one the doctor knocked down all my worries: appendicitis, kidney infection etc. “It’s just a bacterial virus,” I told my mother on the way out, relief shooting though me like a nice shot of diazepam. “But what about meningitis?’ she said.

I spent the rest of the morning telling myself that he would have been bound to have checked for that and didn’t need me to remind him because they obviously were taught not to forget to check for that at medical school weren’t they? Or else what’s the point of my niece busting herself to get straight A’s in all her A levels? Then I rolled a glass all over X’s tummy until she complained I was hurting it.

By bedtime the fact that X was sitting up, eating a sandwich and watching telly was probably a sign that even if he hadn’t checked, he was lucky and wouldn’t be struck off because she was in the clear.

And the next day, Easter Day, I couldn’t get out of bed myself. It was a burning hot day and I burnt up with it. X had a fabulous day in the garden, but didn’t want chocolate, so must really have still been ill. I lay and looked at the slivver of light in between the curtains and every so often X came rushing in, her voice helium-high with excitement to tell me all about the Easter egg hunt and other fun and games. It was really the perfect way to be ill.

.....is said to me hundreds of times a day. They are all into friends at this point, I'm told. Who's friends with who is the constant story from school. Who let who play with who, who has the power to sway others to their will. She practices on me: "I won't be your friend if you make me clear up, I won't be your friend if you don't let me wear that... "

"Fine," I say, "I'm not your friend, I'm your mummy."

This felt a bit strange at first but now I can say it with gusto. Since I will be about eighty when she is a teenager there isn't much chance I'll ever be one of those mothers who says they are more like friends with their daughters. More like grandmas in my case.

It threw her a bit to begin with, me not wanting to be her friend. They all want to have as many friends as possible at school, I suppose- it's just like facebook and linked in. They haven't evolved to the point where one actually considers it a healthy thing to prune the list being entered into a new address book.

Since then she's diverted to new tactics:

"I won't let you come to my party if you won't let me stay in the bath longer."

That one always makes me laugh, and she gets cross and asks me why I'm laughing.

"Who is going to organise your party if I'm not allowed?" Pause while she considers this.

" You won't be my mummy friend if you don't let me stay in the bath longer."

I haven't thought up my reply to this one yet, and life's too short not to have five more minutes in

the bath. And mummy- friend seems quite a nice balance somehow.

The princess and the pea sized memory.

"Oh the tyranny of pink," sighed a mother I know.

'I steer her towards other colours and she just runs to pink," said another.

"She was doing so well in blues and blacks, and then her friends got to her," said another.

"I'm just trying to enjoy the time when I can insist on grey and red," said another, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

"Ummmm, but hang on a minute," I said, to this last mother, who's been a friend for some years, "what happened when you met your husband only, ummm...three or four years ago? Don't I remember your new fiance, after quite a few months in your tasteful - er, what shall call it? boudoir of powder um..skin tones, with it's sweet fairy flower lights in an array of - what shall we call them- pastel colours and with your ..er, Morroccan tea rose silk bedspread and your, um, cherry muslin window drapes? Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes, after quite a few months in your boudoir didn't he finally pluck up the courage in a heart - to -heart (after he had pledged his entire life and wordly goods to you) and admitted that he wasn't sure he could stand sleeping in a um, Moroccan tea rose shaded bedroom for the rest of his life? And you, I seem to remember, looked on his request quite cooly, almost coldly, some might say, and finally, after talking it through, while drinking rose with girl friends, conceded that possibly the fairy lights might be removed to the sitting room for christmas and that maybe the wall that was mainly wardrobes could have a little taupe?

Best enjoy pink aged four, I reckon.

The tragedy of first position

Do you believe in omens?

I went to visit a school for her and on the way there someone I know and really like yelled out the window of her car and her children go to the school. Maybe that doesn’t count as I did sort of know that her children went there. But she stopped and we chatted and I remembered why I think she is a great, upbeat person and then she told me that she went there when she was young and gave me some ides about some of my transport difficulties. Probably not really an omen, huh?

And then there was a calendar on the wall of dogs, which was by the photographer I am working with at the moment. Probably not a lot to hang the whole idea on, eh? But I love the shots…

And if I think about it in terms of Ofsted reports and whether I want her to learn through play or actually learn to read and write, and whether it’s me that cares about uniforms or her, and whether it is good to be near home or near my work when I have no idea where I will be working, and if I can actually cope with doing a packed lunch every day, let alone with the fact that I really want to live somewhere else entirely….well, I just go mad. So I might as well make a mad omen sort of decision, no?

Oh, and when I walked around the school and saw the artwork on the walls I nearly burst into tears. I’ve no idea why. Does that count?

Does it even matter if she learns to play not to count?

Fonic Fun ( better a witty fool than a foolish wit )

Tricky thing the English language, practically every word one picks is an exception to the rules of phonics, not to mention the rules of grammar, spelling and a load of other rules that take up rather too much childhood time.

On the way back from seeing a friend in Holland Park we play spelling the names of her friends.

‘Me and my best friend, it’s OK.’ She says, delightedly.

Ok, to get the (what I choose to call a ) joke you need to know that her best friend’s name begins with K and hers O. Ok, even after that it’s not exactly a belter but it’s her first wordplay joke, as far as I'm aware, though maybe she puns and riddling with the teachers and minders all day every weekday.

We begin to sound out the name of another friend.

“A, m, e, l, i, a….”I enunciate in my best consonants and vowels (might as well do a bit of elocution at the same time).

“Eh?” she says.

“Yes: A, m.....- e! Clever girl!”

“U?”

‘No, e!’

“E?” I catch her eye in the mirror, she’s looking very pleased with herself.

Oh, eh! I geddit…another little wordplay. At this rate I’ll have to get her a Shakespeare red nose

t-shirt for Comic Relief.