Okay so here’s the deal. One, you’re a princess, right? A fully fledged bit of royal DNA. No ifs, no buts, no daddy being naughty with the commoners. Two, you’re the number one child, born 9 months and 13 days after the royal marriage. Lucky I was overdue, ha! Wouldn’t want to embarrass the parentals by being living proof daddy dear couldn’t keep it sheathed.

By now you’re getting the idea that my princessness doesn’t run to my brain. They’ve controlled everything else in my oh so wonderful, sprinkles and unicorns life but not how I think. Or write.

And that’s a bit of a bummer, you know? Like I have this Ladies Maid who’s actually a duplicitous piece of sly cow meat, aka a spy. Who found my diary. Who told my mother. Right. I mean, why not issue a sodding proclamation: Her Royal Painness has written about her shitty life and those who’ve framed it are appalled. ‘It’s your duty, blah blah blah’ Like whatever happened to choice and some human rights, people?

Continue reading: Parents Can Be Right B******ds #writephoto