Viva Love!

It won’t have escaped your notice that there was a quite a high profile wedding this weekend.

Amid high security and watched by a live crowd of thousands sweating fervently in the streets of Windsor, (honestly when is it EVER 22C in May?) two people vowed to spend the rest of their lives conversing through interconnecting dressing rooms and enjoying annual breaks at Center Parcs with the security detail.

At eleven o’clock on Saturday, 19th May, we had one Prince and a divorced American actress. By half past twelve we had a Duke and a Duchess of Sussex.

The bride looked radiant in what I’d call a boat neck gown but which The Telegraph has termed ‘bateau neck’. (Oh please.) BTW, girl got great shoulders.

The prince was waiting for her in a heavy wool frock coat and traditional bullet proof vest. 

Meghan’s acting experience had clearly stood her in good stead.

She walked with dignity down the aisle before grabbing hold of some bloke in the audience (his fault for sitting in the front row) and processing to the altar. (Touching really. I love Prince Charles.)

She knew how to stand and, at least as importantly, who to stand next to.

She spoke with actorly confidence and assurance. There was only one performer to match her and that was the Most Reverend Michael Curry, Head of the Episcopal Church in the US.

Great speech. Bit long, if I’m honest, and easy to lose your audience when there are so many celebs in the room to check out.

And, unlike in the world of variety, there’s no bloke flashing a torch from the back of the room to let you know your time’s up and you should get off. NOW.

The thing about watching other people’s weddings is they make you think back to your own.

I enjoyed my Big Day but I was very young when it happened.

Unlike Meghan who clearly has her shit together, my shit was still a bit confused. Many of my views were still very much evolving.

Back then I was very much at the mercy of Richard Curtis and his hit film ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral.’

I think I was trying to recreate the movie in rural Dorset. And I think I very much succeeded.


We married in a picturesque village church. The groom had lied about being baptised. Both of us had lied about believing in God. 


The groom did look a lot like Hugh Grant. He had the floppy dark hair and the Received Pronunciation. If only he’d had the money. But no. He had to tap his mum for the fifty quid we owed the bell ringers.


I did wear a massive dress which made me look like one of those toilet roll dollies which were once so fashionable. The upside was, the sheer weight of it (lots of beading, many layers) meant I must have dropped at least three pounds from the sheer effort of wearing it. The down side was that there wasn’t enough room for my new husband to walk down the aisle by my side. So he walked behind. Strangely emblematic of our relationship.


We had been part of an am dram group (I told you, my shit was still confused) and we’d recently performed a show called ‘The Best Days of their Lives,’ a schools farce set during the Second World War. On the Big Day, as we exited the church, the cast members jumped out wearing girls’ PE skirts and waving hockey sticks, shouting ‘Homo in omnibus.’ Fortunately neither of us was seriously injured. 


I had a few male friends acting as ushers. One simply doesn’t anticipate one’s friends will be quite as predatory as they clearly are. I had a few of my favourite students in attendance (I was teaching at a girls’ grammar school at the time). I mean, they were all of an age, but still. INAPPROPRIATE. Nobody wants to stumble upon the Captain of Netball out of position.


My father made undue reference to my credit card bills.

My husband was hilarious if I say so myself. I wrote the speech; he performed it. We are a team.

I’m thrilled for Harry and Meghan; they look like a team.

And it’s good to have someone to help you out of your bullet proof vest at the end of the day.


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