When I say I’m taking my seven year old daughter to Disneyland there’s usually two reactions: either abject horror or bemused sighs of what a nice parent I am. It might seem off-brand for a fashion editor, but I adore Disney. I love the naff kitschiness, the inane tones of It’s a Small World, the implication that nothing bad could ever happen, the pure homely, apple-pie weirdness of it all.
The last time I came to Disneyland Paris was the early Nineties. We stayed at the Davy Crockett themed hotel, which was essentially caravans covered in plastic logs cosplaying as cabins in the woods. I adored it. It remains a childhood highlight, a strange sort of magic of scream-inducing thrills, sugar highs and unfathomable excitement over people dressed up as cartoon characters.
