I’m not a royalist at all. But as I sit here watching a video of Prince William, his wife Kate (Duchess of Cambridge), and their two children, George and Charlotte, walking down the steps of their plane as they arrived yesterday in western Canada, I feel a little bit overwhelmed with emotion.

Why? Because this is the last bastion of real class in terms of elegance, grace and dignity. We could learn from this. OK, so we might not have a royal expense account to keep us kitted out in Missoni, Balmain and Lanvin and, yes, the Royal visits basically involve a lot of posing and platitudes. But in this age of vulgarity, incivility and violence, we could all use a little class and glamour right now.

The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and their children Prince George and Princess Charlotte arrive in Victoria, B.C., on Saturday, September 24, 2016. Darryl Dyck

I think Prince William is a star. Ever since his mother was killed, here in Paris, in that horrendous car crash caused by the French driver who lost control because he was drunk, my heart has gone out to him. William was 15 at the time, his brother Harry 12. I’ll never forget the expression of utter shame and embarrassment on President Chirac’s face as he greeted Prince Charles on the tarmac at a Paris military airport. Charles had flown over to collect Diana’s body in a plain wooden casket. She was 36 years old. What a tragic, stupid, senseless death (as any death is caused by a drunk driver). I’ll never forget the funeral procession that wound its way through the streets of London on September 6, 1997; the cortege that broke a million hearts. Not a dry eye in the world. The most poignant scene, of course, was that of William and Harry walking behind their dead mother’s coffin as it rode on a gun carriage to Westminster Abbey. So stoic, so British stiff upper lip they were, even at that young age.

And now William’s all grown up, married and the father of two children. He’s been in the world spotlight his entire life.

In case you’re thinking that the Royals are just a bunch of lazy layabouts, you’re wrong. Research from the Charities Aid Foundation (CAF) reveals that the Queen is among the world’s greatest supporters of charities and has helped the many organisations of which she is patron raise over £1.4 billion.

The Queen is patron to 510 charities in Britain, including Cancer Research UK, the British Red Cross and Barnado’s. The wider Royal Family support a grand total of 2,415 charities in Britain, with this figure rising to almost 3,000 worldwide.

Have I already told you how much I love Friday nights? On my way home from work I picked up a bottle of chilled rosé (5 euros, 60). Then to Picard (gourmet frozen foods) to buy an ultra-thin crust gorgonzola-mushroom pizza. It’s chill time in front of my favorite cult series, Homeland. Just got the Season 5 DVDs.

Oh, here’s my 4 year-old godson who has nothing to do with Friday night pizza. I found these photos on my memory card. They were taken two weekends ago when I left London for Lille on the Eurostar train. That’s my expensive Shu Uemura lipstick he has on his face. After finding my make-up bag, he helped himself to its contents.

This little boy is the most self-possessed, pampered, authoritarian 4-year old I’ve ever known. Yes, authoritarian! (he’s a Taurus). Like a miniature Napoleon, he marches around the house telling one and all what to do. The funny thing is is that we all obey.

“Tata Juliet,” he says to me in a commanding tone, “I want to take a bath. You can come, but don’t look.” 

“OK”, I say, obediently (me? obedient?) and follow him down the hallway into the bathroom. I run the Emperor’s bath, being careful to mix the water so that it’s not too hot, not too cold. He undresses. “Don’t look!” he squeals. But the side of the tub is too high and he needs to be lifted up and placed (delicately) into the water. Reassuring him that I’m not looking, I do this with my eyes closed. What, exactly, I’m not supposed to be looking at…oh, a teeny-tiny penis…since when were 4 year-olds so prudish?

Once in the bathwater, his private parts hidden under a blanket of bubbles, I ask if he wants me to rinse and lather his hair. “No!”, he hollers, “I can do it myself.” “OK,” I say, now sitting on a small stool near the door. I watch as he wets a portion of his head, lathers another portion, then sprays the entire bathroom with the hand-held showerhead. I’m wetter than he is.

“I want out now,” he announces. His head is sudsy. Getting him out of the tub requires a deft balancing act between my bending down, clasping his slippery little body, then straightening up (yikes, my painful lower back). He clings to me, frog-like, all the while squealing “Don’t look!”

“I’m not looking!” I squawk back.

I wrap his body in a large towel and his head in a small one. I place his slippers on the rug. He holds my hand while maneuvering his little feet into them. Le Petit Prince. We emerge from the bathroom, him looking serene and happy, me looking like I’ve been dragged through a car wash (without the car).

“Oh, did you have a bath too?” his father says to me.