A Girl Called Alice.

I met a lovely little girl this morning, a delightfully prim and shy 3-year-old called Alice. I like that name. My paternal grandmother was called Alice, and so was my favourite aunt.

She reminded me of something I said on this blog a while ago: that if the world were ruled by little girls it would certainly be even more chaotic than it is now, but it would also probably be a much nicer place. For example, welfare would be extended to the provision of ice cream, chocolate and bubble gum to everybody earning less than £100,000 a year, and mistreatment of animals would become a capital offence.

‘Off with his head,’ cried Alice when she saw a man scolding his dog.

‘That’s my line, you little upstart!’ screamed the Red Queen.

‘Not any more it isn’t,’ replied Alice with a confident and triumphant smile.

And the fact of boys being useless would be universally regarded as axiomatic and never thought of as any kind of –ism (apart from a truism, of course, which doesn’t count.)