IF you had asked me last Friday to write down everything I knew about Princess Margaret, it would have barely covered the side of one of her fag packets. Queen's sister; drinker, smoker, divorcee. That was about it.

Now, having read enough obituaries to paper the palace, she could be my specialist subject on Mastermind.

Despite the acres of newsprint, it turns out she didn't do a lot to fill her 71 years. I learned that Margaret Rose was once the president of the Lowland Brigade Club and the patron of the Winnipeg Art Gallery; that she was decorated with the Dame Grand Cross of the Order of St John of Jerusalem; and that she counted among her friends the actress Nannette Newman (whose washing up skills must have come in useful after those Kensington Palace dinner parties).

Margaret, a member of one of London's leading family firms, also knew the bosses of another: Ronnie and Reggie Kray. She was a keen photographer.

Give or take the odd doomed love affair it was a fairly unexciting life. Apart from the fact that Margaret Rose was a princess.

It strikes me as bizarre that in Britain we use the term "princess" not to denote a toad-kissing character from fairytale land, but to mean a living, breathing human being. One that expects us to curtsey before her.

Yet what is the point of being a prince or a princess? It's not a job. There are no exams to pass, no constitutional instruction manual. A princess is not head of state and has no official capacity. Her only role is to hang around in case her nearest and dearest die and she is needed as a locum monarch. Hardly the most cheerful job description.

Margaret's interpretation of being a princess involved carrying out varying numbers of official duties, before pursuing the high life at home and abroad.

This assessment is not intended as a criticism of Princess Margaret. All the reports this week revealed her to be a highly intelligent woman, inadequately educated, who must have been bored out of her mind for large swathes of her life.

That she managed to build an enjoyable social life without compromising her loyalty to the Queen and Crown says much about her. Most importantly, Princess Margaret brought up two well-adjusted children who clearly adored her: no one should suggest her personal life was unfulfilled.

But, aside from mother and sister, who was Margaret Rose? She was a clever and sparky individual who could have flourished in any number of fields - had she not been packed into the pigeonhole marked "princess".

TRUTH is the first casualty of house selling. Anyone who has shown prospective buyers around their property knows that honesty is not the best policy. We paper over the cracks, hide the carpet stains and scatter sackfuls of pot pourri to mask the smell of cat pee.

All Colin and Gladys King did was go a little further. When they were selling up, they ticked the box "no" in answer to the question: any problems with your neighbours?

The Kings were hardly likely to write, "yes they have made our lives utterly unbearable, only a madman would consider living here". Their fib later cost them a fair few quid in the small claims court.

Only once have I encountered a burst of candour from a house-seller. After touring their York home, we asked if it was a nice neighbourhood. "Oh yes," said the husband. "We've only had the one stabbing in the street."

Judging by the look his wife gave him, a second one was likely that night.

Updated: 10:18 Wednesday, February 13, 2002