A Perfect Princess Party

"A picture paints a thousand words"  so sit back and prepare for my first novel to chart the most perfect princess party.

How to host a Princess Party - by Shirley...

First your need some princess to attend.  Then you need something to keep them entertained, so make colouring in books for them.

Then the princesses will have to play some games, but they MUST have a princess theme.  So start with musical princess flags.  When the music (princess music of course) stops, if a random mummy picks the princess from the bag that you are standing beside, you win that flag and are out.  (Not that any of the littler princesses obeyed any sort of rule, but you can do that when you are royalty - it's one of the perks)

Then play "True love's first kiss"  This game is similar to "pin the tail on the donkey", but donkeys aren't particularly princessy, so paint a picture of Aurora asleep, blindfold the princesses and give them lip stickers that say "True love's first kiss" and see how close to Sleeping Beauty's lips you can get them.

I genuinely forgot to take a photo of Sleeping Beauty (I will deny that it was deliberately out of jealousy, but Freud would argue about my subconscious, so I will post one later to prove that silly man wrong)

The next thing to do is to play "Pass the poisoned apple"  When the apple stops with you, don't eat it (remember what happened to Snow White) but take a princess challenge and pass it on.

Bea's challenge to "give someone a hug" was perhaps the most perfect challenge for her.  The winner is the person who gets the apple when all the challenges have gone.  Of course they have to select their prize from the Princess Treasure Chest.

Then it is time to unite the princesses in a few team games, that largely involved running and jumping which princesses can do very well....

...and to further complete their education, they must indulge in a spot of crafting.  Each princess was given a hand mirror (created by Shirley) to decorate with jewels.

   Bea's Daddy lifted her mirror and little voices were heard saying "Mirror, mirror on the wall" and as he looked into it, his daughter announced "I see the Beast!"

By then it was time for party food.  The cheese was heart shaped, the sandwiches were royal gowns and crowns and Granny Gwen produced some Cinderella slipper shaped cookies.

Then the most desirable, touchable cake appeared

Shirley understands that sometimes princesses don't want to do the same as everyone else, so she created a special little princess land in the corner, with a game, dress up clothes and a beauty parlour.

So "Happy Birthday Princess Beth".  I'm sure your princess party was everything you dreamed of....

And if YOU want to have a similar experience, I suggest you hire Shirley as your party planner, entertainer and cake creator.

The party bag (the morning after)

Finally, I'm not sure what you call a collection of tiny princesses....

...but I think "a scream" would be apt.

The Royal Wedding (part two)

I have heard a rumour (OK I read it in a newspaper sometime ago) that the big boss man at Disney has decided that princesses are passe and so the studio will not be creating any more Princess movies (post Tangled).  I wonder what research informed this enlightened decision.  Perhaps, after he folded his copy of the Guardian,  he had a chat with the same folk who have tried to convince me that Bea's love of dollys, pink, sparkles and princesses is entirely due to the way her Daddy and I have raised her.  We have thrust this upon her.  We have guided her and directed her along the path of girliness.  Perhaps we have.  If so it was unintentional.  But, if my girl wants to be feminine, if this love of girlie things is all her (which I strongly suspect it is) go her!  I know that she will do it alongside climbing, running, shouting and enjoying the odd wrestle with Daddy.

He certainly didn't have a chat with any of the two, three or four year old girls I know.  Princesses are a bit of an obsession with them!

Saturday will be Beth's "Princess party"  The excitement is already building in our house, with both Bea and I, if the amazing invitations are anything to go by!  

Josie too has demanded a "Princess party" and Beatrice has instructed me that her party has to have "princesses and pink and flowers and sparkles"  That I can do.

Princesses are big business.  Beatrice has already amassed a collection of clothes, dolls, clocks, stickers and books.  That is not to mention the dvds, nor the fact that I have actually downloaded "Hail to the Princess Aurora!" from itunes (who in their right mind.....?)

Beside Bea's bed is a framed photograph.  It shows Bea, Josie and Beth in an assortment of Beth's princess dresses with a collection of her dolls.  This photo occasionally stops Bea going to sleep.  She has to hold it, gaze lovingly at it and reminisce.  The princess love is established and overwhelming.

Anyhow, the enlightened big boss at Disney acknowledges that this is a stage that little girls quickly grow out of and that little boys do not fully engage with.  True.  He also thinks that princesses are not good role models for our children.  He wants heroic leading ladies, not sappy chicks in pretty dresses with tiaras just waiting to be rescued.  At this point he and I part company.  I think there is a lot to be admired in the princesses.  Look at Cinderella.  She worked hard and continued to love those who treated her unfairly.  She was kind to those less fortunate than her and always tried to see the best in people (or cats).  She never, despite the circumstances, lost her faith - although it was shaken.  Yes, in the end, she fell in love with a handsome prince and lived happily ever after.  Now to anyone who resents her...give the girl a break!  What about the warbly voiced Snow White?  Another grafter!  Look at how bravely she copes with being taken into the woods, almost killed and then abandoned with only the clothes she stands up in.  Does she fall to pieces? Yes there is a moment when it is touch and go, but she rises to the challenge, faces her fears and overcomes them.

Yes, I understand that this is not real life.  Not everyone gets a happily ever after.  But, I am a grown woman.  I am educated.  I live in the real world, have a real relationship and bleach my own toilet.  Still, I love beautiful dresses.  I love to twirl and watch my skirt spin out.  At times, I too, need to be rescued*    But here I am, still working out my "happily ever after", still enjoying fairy tales, still believing that it is possible.  AND  I suspect that I am not alone.

I suspect the 24.5 million people who watched the Royal Wedding on terrestrial tv hadn't tuned in by accident nor were they finding princesses outdated.

* particularly from birds (both living and dead).  Last Friday, a bird got into our attic.  I could hear it tap dancing above the study.  I could hear it's dazed tweets as it flew into the window to discover that glass was stronger than he was.  I felt compassion for the little creature, but not enough to put my head through the trap door to rescue it (I'm not a patch on Cinders)  I had to wait until Jonathan returned to rescue the tweeter.  Subsequently, while hanging the washing on the line I spotted a bird in two parts on the lawn.  I walked in a large semi circle around it and waited until I was rescued by a large gull who swooped onto the grass (the avian equivalent to a mcdonalds drive through) and we'll just not mention the time Jonathan was away on a school trip and I had to summon Grif to drive from Ballyclare to put a dead bird in the bin so that I could release the hounds.

The Unknown Market

I have a confession.

I have never been to St George’s Market, before today.  I have been put off by the unknown.  For some reason, walking to “the markets” seemed a very intimidating thing to do.  I despise bartering.  I am distinctly uncomfortable being forced to ask the price of something.  

Dear Mister Market Trader, I do not want to speak to you.  I do not want to ask what something costs and then enter into a haggle.  I do not want to feel as though you are dishonest.  When I ask the price, I want to know what you want for it and then I will decide if I want to pay that.  If I don’t, I will walk on.  If I talk your price down, I won’t feel I have bagged a bargain, I will feel cheated by your initial dishonesty.  Thank you and enjoy your day.

But Gayle’s Cakes was opening and Beatrice and I felt in need of an adventure.  So we braved the unknown and set off this morning.

http://www.facebook.com/gayle.cakes

(The courgette cake sounds disgusting but tastes AMAZING!)

The unknown is now known and we will be back.  

We bartered with no-one.  Where the labels said “3 big loaves for £5” we bought 3 loaves of the most delicious fruit soda, had them bagged in brown paper bags, and moved on to look at the vintage jewellery.  We also stood beneath a rainbow of wool (and one of us attempted to palm a bobbin, before the other noticed and returned it, fully empathising with the kleptomania given the jolly coloured beads on the bobbin ends).

The colours of the spices, wafting fumes of rich coffee and authentically made crepes, googly eyes of the fresh fish and the overall experience was as much fun that we will return.

Adventures into the unknown are good (especially when you return home to a pot of tea and some buttered, home baked soda)

A Rite of Passage

Beatrice endured a rite of passage today.  Unfortunately the passage fate had her follow happened to contain a patch of rather stingy nettles.  

It all began as such fun.  There was running in the garden at dalchoolin.  There was chasing, and being chased by, the new puppy (who incidentally has been named Percy).  

Then there was the nettle incident which curtailed any joy for the following twenty minutes.

Thus when Mummy arrived at the house she was greeted by the high pitched wail indicative that something had gone awry.  On investigation she discovered Bea perched on the kitchen counter with Melissa holding a damp cloth to her leg.  The leg was bright red and covered in the unmistakable white welts of the ferocious nettle stings.

One chocolate truffle, several cuddles and the promise of nail polish eventually dulled the wail to a sporadic outburst of “awoooch it is stingy” and we were able to relocate to the family room.

Oh nettles!  How could you do it?

Each member of the assembled St Johns then told Bea of their own battlescars.  Granda Brian had terrible nettle stings when he was a boy, as did Mummy, and Chloe and even Romily (Auntie Andrea’s Sylvannian family figure who endured very painful nettle stings to the tail in her youth)  But it was Melissa’s encounter with nettles which was the most horrific.  While Romily had stings on her tail, Granda had some on his legs and both Chloe and Mummy got them on their arms, Mels had fallen into a nettle patch and been stung on her arms, legs and face.  Beatrice became comforted in this collective memory of nettle pain.  She was still “stingy” but felt part of a rather exclusive club.  (Little did she realise that this club is not exclusive, rather it is extensive!)  

Perhaps this encounter will furnish Beatrice with a greater interest in herbology.  On our adventures on Daddy’s mountain she will peer with greater concentration at the tangle of pathside vegetation and be eager to learn which leaf shape the nettles assume.  Perhaps she will take greater care when cavorting bare legged in the Northern Irish wilds.  Perhaps....perhaps not.

The tale of the nettles was duly recounted to Daddy who shared his own experiences.  Some of which involved imparting nettle knowledge to a naive American...

A long time ago Jonathan and Paul took Michelle (said American) on a hosteling holiday in the Republic.  They amazed her with myths about giants, their skill at weather forecasting (red sky at night), their knowledge of mythology (fairy rings and raths) and of course their received wisdom about “traditional healing remedies and incantations”.  This wisdom was imparted when Michelle met some nettles.  Being gentlemen, Paul and Jonathan had a hunt in the undergrowth and procured some dockin leaves.  She was presented with this odd bouquet and instructed to rub it on the nettle stings reciting “Dockin in, Dockin out, Dockin rub the nasty nettle out”  As the “placebo” took effect, Michelle was amazed not only by her healing, but also that the gentlemen were so ambivalent about their knowledge of traditional healing remedies.  She consequently returned to the states carrying no scars, save perpetuating the quaint view of the Irish created by the Americans.

And so, Beatrice’s rite of passage is celebrated and turned into something of a homily... surely there are the fingerprints of a loving God (albeit with a quirky sense of humour) in the story of two weeds who choose to grow in such proximity, one of which brings suffering to humans while the other brings comfort.

The Royal Wedding

It may be slightly sad and horribly wrong to admit it publicly, but I loved the Royal Wedding.

(this does make me chuckle so)

Having accidentally booked the caravan site for the second Easter week, it subsequently occurred to me that that particular weekend included the Royal Wedding.  Following a brief moment of panic, calm  was restored upon the realisation that we were going to be in Bushmills, merely 5 miles from the motherland (Mummy’s birthplace and the home of her siblings).  Thus it was decreed that I would visit Auntie Dora for the morning of the wedding and take full advantage of her widescreen tv.

So at 10 am on the 29th of April, (Hello magazine assured us that the princes would only be leaving Clarence House at 10.10) Beatrice and I arrived at Auntie Dora’s brandishing Kate and Wills buns, two union flags and dressed in our party frocks.  

(not a bad caravan production)

The following three hours passed in a whirlwind of “oooh, look at her, she is beautiful”, “I think that’s one of the Spencer girls” and “Wow, that dress is divine...very Grace Kelly”.  Just for the record, I loved the trees in the Abbey “echoing the gothic arches”, with the 6 Field Maples meaning humility and reserve and the hornbeam symbolising resilience.  I thought her bouquet was understated and perfect with THE dress.  I loved that sprigs of the myrtle came from both Queen Victoria’s garden and the Queen’s own bouquet.  I loved that Pippa didn’t carry any flowers, her hands were too full with Kate’s train and the little flower girls.

http://thebeautybridal.com/2443/kate-middleton-picks-flowers-with-special-meanings.html

Of course the ceremony itself was gossiped over and Bea did give us her rendition of “Hail to the Princess Aurora” during “Jerusalem” while standing in front of the tv to secure maximum attention.  

We had a lovely party (OK it was lunch with cocktail sausages, but that was how I temped Bea in from the garden and the delights of playing with “the boys”) and hung around to see THE kiss.  Then it was off for more holiday adventures...

Naturally on Saturday I bought both the Daily Mail and the Express (one for the pictures, the other for the journalism) and purchased the Sunday Times to feast on the photographs until I could buy Hello.

Our return from the caravan was heralded by warm windy weather, so within one afternoon I had all of the clothes washed and dried.  All that remained was the mountain of ironing.  The BBC coverage of the wedding, which I had of course Sky +ed was selected, and as the iron warmed up, I relived Friday on Monday.  As the pile of ironing shrank and the piles of ironed grew, I absorbed all of the detail and inconsequential information shared by the well researched presenters, I amazed my husband with my knowledge of lesser royals and European monarchs and I submerged myself in pomp and pageantry.  I loved every minute of it.

So here we are a week and a day beyond the “historical nuptials”  and they have arrived....the little plastic Kate and William created by the ELC.  Beatrice has played with them all day.  I have acted as both Queen and cheering crowd simultaneously.  The little people have lined up to celebrate and reenact the wedding.  They have been transported safely to Granny Gina’s and back home again.  Husband and I even papped a few pictures of our own.

(The Baron and Baroness of Carrickfergus with their guard, followed by the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh, followed by the minor royals in the mini bus.)

New Post(er)

There is very little more intimidating or more exciting than a clean page to fill up with words.

I always get so very excited by stationary and delight in beginning to scribble in some new and beautiful book, so blogging seems the next logical step.  The only problem is that after a flurry of activity lasting a few weeks my default setting of apathy sets in.  I am then reluctant to return, preferring to start anew again.

So here is a "cheers" to my new blog.  Let's see how long it lasts....