Ges on the Box; Imagine, if you can, Princess Geraldine

IT was 55 years ago this week that Corporal and Mrs Jones proudly announced (well, maybe not proudly . . . they had put in a request for a boy) the birth of their second daughter.

Had she been a lad they would have called him Glyn, after his father. As it was, she had to settle for being named after a pig farming uncle. Gerald.

The bouncing baby girl weighed in at a smidgen over 6lbs. The heaviest of all Mrs Jones’s daughters. A fact that remains to this day. She cried morning, noon and night, happy only when fed. Another trait that has stood the test of time. The eating, not the crying.

It could have been worse. This child could have been born, with fanfare, to Philip and Elizabeth Windsor. Then things would have been different. For you, too.

Because you wouldn’t be sitting here now reading this over your fish and chips. No, had young Geraldine been born into the royal family you can bet your bottom dollar that she wouldn’t have been allowed to work for the Oldham Evening Chronicle.

She probably wouldn’t have been allowed to ditch school after failing most of her O-levels either. Not to mention several divorces... actually, on reflection, the divorces would probably have been all right.

Her life would have been mapped out. Originally second in line to the throne, this position would gradually have been usurped as big sister gave birth to a handful of squalling brats.

By now she’d probably be some bitter princess regretting she never made it in the world of journalism or retail management or whatever.

Or maybe she’d throw caution to the wind, secrete a camera in her Gucci bag and set off for Turkey and Romania to expose the living hell of the mentally ill.

If you saw “Duchess And Daughters” last week, you’ll know what I’m waffling about. A documentary that would have us believe the Duchess of York (Andrew’s ex) took her princess daughters by the hand and alone and unaided set about filming on the inside of orphanages and homes for the mentally handicapped.

It was, at best, a superficial look at what goes on in these awful places. Despite the mini international storm it almost caused, it showed us nothing new. We’ve all been, courtesy of TV, to Romanian orphanages before. Nothing has changed.

And I doubt Sarah’s attempt will change much now. Except, maybe, daughters Beatrice and Eugenie. Seeing life in the raw may persuade them to give up clubbing and set off to change the world. Or maybe not.