We know, because she told someone. A couple of days into their week-long tour of India and Bhutan some brave civilian asked Kate and Wills why they hadn’t brought their photogenic offspring with them on the most photogenic of tours, and Kate replied:
“Because George is too naughty. He would be running all over the place. The next time we come we will definitely bring them.”
Oh Kate. Kate, Kate, Kate. I knew it. We have so much in common.
You are a tall, skinny brunette Duchess. I am a short, dumpy, blonde... erm, I'm not sure what I am.
And yet, our lives are so similar. You can't take your boy with you on an all-expenses paid, super luxurious tour to a colony formerly ruled by your in-laws.
And I can't take my son four suburbs west of my house to visit my in-laws.
Or rather, I can. But they won't be speaking to us for a month afterwards. And in your case, that wouldn't do wonders for Anglo-Indian relations, would it?
My son is a full year older than yours, Kate (can I call you Kate?), so you might not want to read on, lest you realise that it might take a while for harmony to be restored to your home, but in the name of solidarity, there are some things I need to tell you about the reality of travelling with a three-year-old boy, whether you're on the QE2 or the number 370 bus.
- Farts. Both his own and anyone else's in a 200-metre radius. My boy liked to stop mid-wrestle, sniff the air and bellow: 'Who did a fart in their BOTTOM?' at peak volume. Cute, right?
- Mess. My boy thinks his fingers are clean if he's wiped them on his pants. Look, usually if he gets as far as the pants, I'm agreeing with him. Unlike today when, four suburbs over at my in-laws he just wipes his tomato-saucy fingers on the cushions. The beige, fur cushions (did I mention my in-laws don't have any kids?).
- Noise. If my three-year-old isn't roaring like a T Rex, he's squealing at ear-splitting volume. He knows nobody likes it. He knows that the bone-shrinking scream is the thing that will get him taken home quicker than a public poo, but he can't help himself. Because he's three. And three year olds, above all things, are relentlessly provocative sh*theads.
- Fights. Like you, Kate, I have two children (see, so much in common). And they clash. Loudly, publicly, over the tiniest thing. And I know that the fact your daughter is teeny-tiny might protect you from a public brawl, but we all know that's not true. An infant bum-shuffles up to a toddler and grabs his ball/train/stale bread roll and it's on - fingers up nose.
- Entourage. My boy won't leave the house without 15 dinosaurs and 6 small cars. The excess baggage on long-haul to Mumbai would make even the royal eyes water. And I'm sure, like my small boy, George likes to insist on TAKING all the things, but not CARRYING any of the things. Again, really cute.
- The Bolt. I remember when you brought George to Australia and he was just so darn cute with that bilbie. Those where the days, right? When you could reliably take him somewhere and he would stick close to your side? If my son sees an opening, he's gone - The Bolt is his signature move and the reason why you really don't want an army of paparazzi capturing that moment when you go sprinting after him, nude heels clacking, blow-dry tangled in the wind. That's not a photo opp you need in your life.
- Food. Small boys are impossibly fussy. And you know, and I know, that the food in India is spectacular, but something tells me if you had taken your brood with you, you would have had a nanny on a constant search for plain brown bread with "no bits" and mandarins with all the "white stuff" taken off and tomato sauce. And fish fingers, in downtown Agra...
Who would want to risk something like this happening in such a high-profile environment? Post continues after video...
No, Kate, I understand. Little kids are not the best travellers. And when my in-laws recover from yesterday's invasion and start replying to my texts again, I'm sure they'd agree. Best leave them at home.
It'll make today's homecoming all the sweeter.
* I know, I know, she isn't called Princess Kate, but come on, we all just wish she'd throw in centuries of tradition and protocol and go with it.
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