Kate Middleton's parents are years ahead

Is the Middletons' 'cash-in' on the royal wedding evidence of their foresight?

Are Carole and Michael Middleton the cleverest people in Britain? Are they the canniest, most-driven, most-forward-looking couple on these isles? The tabloids certainly seem to think so.

The Middletons, soon to be inlaws of Prince William, are in hot water after the revelation that their website, Party Pieces, will be selling celebratory items in advance of the royal wedding.

The company received a message on Facebook, which said:

"Hi! We attend a British school in Sweden and will have a Royal Wedding day in April! Will you be selling traditional British themed products we can order in the coming months?"

Being a gambly sort of girl, I'd bet a lot of money that this message came from a journalist. I can picture him at his desk, staring at the website, wondering how to trap them. He hasn't gone on a long journey to construct his brilliant wheeze; his eye simply caught the words "Swedish schoolgirls" in another window that he forgot to close earlier. The Middletons are lucky the inquiry didn't come from a busty German milkmaid.

Sadly, someone at Party Pieces fell for it and wrote enthusiastically back. Maybe they should start a support group with Sally Bercow.

"We will certainly be doing some traditional street party bits," came the company's reply. "These will be available mid-late February!"

This triggered a flurry of tutting headlines. The Mirror was the clearest – "Kate Middleton's parents to cash in on wedding to Prince William" – but all the tabloids had a stab. Like Murder on the Orient Express.

You might wonder why I think the Middletons, in answering a question directly about the wedding on a public forum, are the cleverest people in Britain. Well, I assume the Facebook reply was not written by them personally. What interests me is the idea of "scheming" (a widely used word in the story) to make money out of the wedding.

After all, they run a party website. It would be odd if they didn't sell party goods. They don't say they are selling royal-themed items, only "traditional street party bits", which is the sort of thing you'd expect them to sell anyway. The newspapers surely would not question this unless they suspected a genuine, long-term plot. So when did it start? How far back does this "scheming" go? I'm guessing birth.

A beautiful daughter is born. There are the young Middletons, staring down at this cute little package, about the same age as that royal baby in London.

"Think ahead, think ahead," urges Michael. "If we bring her up right, teach her skiing and French, train her in deportment, keep her on a strict diet, then send her to Marlborough and St Andrews, she'll probably marry the king."

"I see your thinking!" shrieks a gleeful Carole. "What you're saying is, if we quickly set up a party accessories business now, we know that in 20-odd years there will be an absolute killing to be made on bunting!"

(The Middletons high-five and hurry to Savile Row for a miniature hunting jacket.)

This must, surely, be what the newspapers imagine, for there to be any smack of corruption. If it didn't happen like that, the whole thing would be perfectly innocent, wouldn't it? It would be no different from asking a greengrocer: "Will you be selling strawberries for the royal wedding?" and getting the reply: "We will certainly be selling strawberries later in the year, yes."

But if it did happen like that, it's quite brilliant. If only our chancellor had such foresight. If only our bankers employed such long-term strategising.

It is delightful to be assured there will be street parties for the royal wedding at all. There is something hilarious about that idea.

I was already chuckling when I read about the souvenirs being prepared for the occasion – plates, tea towels, that sort of thing. Buckingham Palace is apparently concerned that there will be a "flood" of unauthorised, Chinese-made memorabilia. Really, a flood? Most of us barely have space to keep souvenirs of our own special occasions, never mind other people's.

Nevertheless, I trust the commercial instincts of big business (if not its morals): if a flood of commemorative goods is being prepared, that means we want them.

And now it turns out we will be throwing street parties under an array of coloured flags. I'm very happy for these two young people and wish them luck, but I can't help being tickled at the thought of us actually feasting in the street, celebrating the union and fertility of the future king. It's not just tribal, it's insectoid.

After all, the line of succession is perfectly safe. It's not like the old days. If His Royal Highness doesn't mate, nobody's going to lay siege to the throne. There won't be bloody war between the Dukes of Norfolk and Burgundy. We'll just get the next person waiting on a long, official list of names, like pensioners queuing at the post office. Somebody will shout: "Window number five, please!" and Prince Harry's daughter will shuffle forwards.

And if the whole House of Windsor should fall, there wouldn't be anarchy because we'd still have leaders. More's the pity. Somebody reminded me, last week, of a great old quote from my father: "Democracy consists of choosing your dictators after they've told you what you think it is you want to hear."

Our street celebrations of the princely union will be ancient, traditional and absolutely meaningless. I can't wait. That's not sarcastic, I really can't. Hurray for this old, weird country where we dance for the royal wedding, play cribbage and nothing rhymes with "orange".

If it were up to me, I wouldn't touch a thing about the royals. The only tweak I'd make is to install those far-sighted Middletons as joint prime minister.