Rebecca Barry: Princess bride in for a royal headache

Dear Kate Middletonclass,

This is a delightfully heady time, what with the world inspecting the family jewels and the Abbey calling every 10 minutes to warn you about the staying power of hibiscus stamens.

If you continue to smile sweetly and wear your hair down, the chatterers and Twitterers will eventually forgive Mummy for chewing gum at Big Willie's graduation.

You'll be pleased to know I've rejigged my schedule to help you organise the biggest hurrah of 2011, but we can't get to the hens' do just yet. It's okay, you don't have as much to organise as Camilla is making out.

The guest list is a doddle. Pretty much the whole world is invited. Think of the presents, Waity. All that free crockery. A leathery pouf for every room.

The bad news: you can't do the pink-and-white My Little Pony carriage. It costs a bomb to french-plait those gee-gees' manes.

Your countryfolk expect to see a frugal royal wedding - which is both an oxymoron and a tally-ho challenge bigger than that time you wore a £40 Topshop number in public - one that will require you to draw on your marketing nous acquired during your hard-working life as an accessories buyer at Jigsaw, coupled with the events expertise you gained while working for your parents' company which, I believe, sells party gear.

You ought to be careful how you word that.

Also, don't tell anyone you're getting married when you order the cake. Don't mention your name if you want a discount. Your name, by the way, needs to go, because Kate already belongs to a British royal of the Moss aristocracy.

Just don't end up like Aragon. Will he be known as Willy Middleton of Wales? No. You'll now be known as a - excuse me while I lah-dee-dah all over my tiara collection - "Princess", so why not just rewrite one's entire title? No biggie.

You may also wish to do something about the press. This just in, from Vogue.com: "They met at university, of course - the dashing heir to the throne and the pretty, chestnut-maned, middle-class, Middle England girl who - buoyed by love - has blossomed before our eyes into a tearing beauty with a perfect svelte figure and a clear sense of fashion identity."

What? I'm pretty sure you wore sparkly hotpants to the roller disco. You may also wish to exterminate narks like this: "It's very much their day like any other couple, and they will make the decisions all the way through. They want the day to be enjoyable for everybody," he said, speaking anonymously in line with palace policy.

Which palace policy allows Charles to talk to the media on the sly? And how does this anonymous bastard plan to keep me happy on the day when I'll have my arms full of leathery poufs and My Little Ponies?

I feel for you, Babykins. You have too many important decisions to make: the dress, the flowers, the in-laws, the out-laws, the probability that your folks will turn up at the Abbey smacking gum and hauling party gear.

Be careful at least to choose a good MC - one who announces where to find the WC, not the "toilet". The "toilet" is for commoners. Remind me to introduce you to my colonic irrigationist.

Ooh, and here's an idea to keep the budget in check: Flag Buckingham. How about tying the knot at the Palace Hotel in Federal St? You could walk up the rubble to yours and Free Willy's favourite Bodyrockers tune, also known as history's uncoolest dancefloor hit, I Like the Way You Move.

"They have already given us thrilling tabloid fodder," vomits Vogue.com, again.

"They broke up, she revelled on the town, lovelier than ever. They made up - triumphantly. And through it all, Miss Catherine Middleton has kept her head firmly below the parapet; a thoroughly educated, sensible, modern woman who has had nearly a decade to understand her future husband, and sufficient preparation for the demands of her future role."

Parapets aside, could you not have picked a better prospect? Marrying into the British royal family - it's not exactly aiming high.