I have long suspected I was a princess, bolstered by my grandmother’s insistences. I felt it in the thin air I breathed, in my irritatingly-picky palate, and in the fact I have never quite managed a good night’s sleep.

“Mother, plump the mattresses!” I shrieked in distress. “I can still feel that sodding pea!”

Imagine my relief, then, that my suspicions have been confirmed thanks to the latest addition to the Royal Family — baby Charlotte Elizabeth Diana. That my royal pageantry, mastered so artfully after years of practice, has not been in vain. Forearm upright and perma-grin pursed, I am ready to meet my subjects. Please form an orderly queue. “Why the pomp?” my naysayers will ask. “Just because she’s called Charlotte, that doesn’t make you a princess!”

Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, underlings. And just this once, before I limit all our correspondence to town criers and Clarence House’s Twitter account, I will tell you why: Because I said so.

Until now, my moniker has received limited acclaim. Popularised in the mid-2000s by the cringe-inducing American rock band Good Charlotte, the name has — until now — been something to shirk.

Achingly ubiquitous for those of us in our 20s, we have each tried to make it our own. Over the years, I’ve been labelled Char, Charlie and Charley (the latter pronounced with a soft “sh”, I’ll have you know).

At university, I accrued the ear-splitting nickname Choliver, until I simply refused to respond. And while my favourite, Carlotta, worked when I lived in Mexico — mostly with Mojito in hand and salsa on the stereo — I soon realised it caused something of a stink when I returned to the UK. Like a very English John, who replies: “Ay, no papi, call me Juan.”

Along the way, I’ve met my fair share of Chas, Chazs, and Lotties (the less said about those the better). But, in truth, no name has ever felt right. It seems that, my whole life, I have been responding to a lie, just like every other Charlotte before or after me. But the prefix Princess? It just feels right.

Birthright, I assure you, is not a linear concept. We live in a world of upward mobility, where paupers can marry princes and Katie Hopkins can, by some odd fluke, win admiration. In such beguiling times, it seems only fair that all Charlottes may, herewith, win royalty retro-actively. Hear ye, hear ye.

So let it be known that from this day forth, Charlottes are — each and every — Her Royal Highness. Bow heads and hearts accordingly. Guide us to the front of the Sainsburys queue, or offer us that extra stamp on our Starbucks loyalty card. And make it known that Jewish princess is no longer a term of derision.

Let us bask in this glorious glow of regal nomenclature, after years of banality and emo band associations. If not for us, do it for Kate, William and that royal sprog they have brought forth, the three of them pinning a lot of weight on this label and all its namesakes.

We have tradition to uphold and heritage to maintain. And I, for one, am relishing the opportunity to right a 25-year-old wrong. Oh, and add another mattress to the stockpile. There’s no fooling a princess, after all.