I’m about to offer the future king of England some advice, and it’s very much his fault for being young enough for me not only to remember him being born but for me to have been just old enough when the momentous event took place to feel the first stirrings of pseudo-maternal pride in this publicly-owned baby. Naturally, I want to help. I’m just a good subject/proto-aunt that way.

So, he can come and sit by me on the sofa here, take one of these sherbet lemons and suck on it while we discuss his apparent desire to streamline the monarchy, strip it down to Danish levels of essentialism and make it fit for and sustainable in the modern age.

We have seen it in the “delightfully informal” family pictures released over the years by the Waleses, in the Princess’s commitment to beige flats wher

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