Hello, your very small majesty, and welcome to Britain: your Britain, over which you will one day be King. We’ve been looking after it for you: indeed, you could say it’s been forever, if you believe in divine right (let’s be honest: you kind of have to). You could also say we’ve been waiting for nine months, if you believe in science – you probably will, but only within reason, and not if your homeopathy-loving grandfather gets to you first. Or you could say that we’ve been waiting for you for just over two years, if you count all of the time that we have spent observing your mother’s abdomen from the day she got married, squinting at the waistlines of her Jenny Packham evening gowns to detect whether they concealed the swell of you, our future monarch, or just an uncharacteristic overindulgence in sandwiches.

"Our loyalty to you is undying, second only to our loyalty to Topshop and Twitter"

We’ve all been in your position, every one of us, looking out at the world with wonder in those first few minutes of our lives, gazing at the big unfocused unknown and thinking: I am the centre of this world! Of course, in our cases, we were thinking that because we had not yet developed the cognitive abilities that would allow us to differentiate between ourselves and other humans. In your case, it’s not entirely inaccurate, or at least not if you don’t consider the world beyond the edges of England and Wales, Australia, some bits of the South Pacific. Scotland, too, at least until 2014.

You’re descended from a long line of august persons, your majesty: kings and queens, with the odd scullery maid or stable hand thrown in for a touch of whimsy. For centuries your family has reigned over this green and pleasant land, bits of Germany, a party planning empire. Your people have moulded Britain in to the place that today becomes your birthright: rolling bucolic hills, bustling industrial cities, decrepit mining towns and Westfield shopping centres of variant levels of gloss. You have millions of subjects, your majesty: our loyalty to you is undying, second only to our loyalty to Topshop (that’s a leading fashion retailer), our loyalty to Twitter (that’s a social network that we’re using to speculate about your intelligence, beauty and legitimacy) and our loyalty to cups of tea (that’s why our teeth could be whiter). 

Empathy is not something always associated with royals, but you come from a line of people who are good at seeming like they care about others, in particular when the others are demonstrating good old-fashioned folk arts, or singing shanties. You must see your caring role as twofold: first, you are vested with the responsibility of regarding the British people with benign affection as they persevere in their national aspirations: to own semi-detached homes in which they can place their mid-range IKEA sofas upon which they can recline to watch their Homeland box sets.

Second, you must be generous and provide your people with things to talk about between episodes: what you’ve been wearing, primarily, and then when you’re old enough, who you’ve been seen canoodling in nightclubs with. For now it’s enough to simply focus on looking smashing in your Petit Bateau and Mini Boden and try not to have any unseemly accidents when anyone from the Daily Mail is hanging around. In exchange, we’ll give you some castles and quite a bit of money. One day, we’ll put your face on the money, too. Don’t drink too much tea.

"Regard the British people with benign affection as they persevere in their national aspirations: to own semi-detached homes in which they can place their mid-range IKEA sofas"

It’s a lot to take in. But if you really want to get to grips with your birthright, you sweet little royal thing, you’ll want to view the footage of last year’s celebration of your great-grandmother’s jubilee. Check it out on iPlayer (another national treasure). This is what you will come to understand: you are the future ruler of a nation that celebrates an elderly woman’s 65-year career with a dire parade of boats doing a slow collective drift down a river, in the rain. We call it a flotilla.

You’ll see your mother in striking red Alexander McQueen wiping her dripping nose with the back of her hand. You’ll see a triumphant airplane flyover cancelled because it’s raining too much. You’ll see  throngs of people lining the banks in olive green cagouls from Primark. See their set, grey faces. See how they stand there in the rain, without joy, but without giving up to sensibly go indoors. These determined folks are yours, your very small majesty. These are your people. We’ve been waiting for you. Welcome.