In July 1981 I looked like this:
What I wanted to look like, of course, was this:
Disappointingly the numbers of available bridesmaids in North Essex were limited and I hadn't (then) met my prince...
But I remember it so well. I was four and a half, and as far as I was concerned it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened. There was absolutely no question that I, my bridesmaid, and our parents would sit solemnly through the entire thing, live, on our new telly.
Fast forward thirty years, and I think I'd sort of imagined that L, six months younger now than I was then, would be similarly excited; and that I'd have to find out if I loved her enough to adapt my wedding dress (strapless doesn't work so well on the genuinely flat-chested) so that she and her sisters could play princesses-to-be in their turn.
But she's not going to. Not only does she not know there's a wedding happening, but she's probably never going to, because while however many thousand of their close friends are filing into Westminster Abbey and Wills and Kate are saying I do, we are going to be profiting from an extra-long weekend with no compulsion to visit family (they're coming for Easter) and heading South to catch up with various friends. I'm enormously looking forward to it, and have no regrets whatsoever about not catching the live nuptials. I'm pretty certain the papers the next day will show me what the dress looked like after all...
But will I regret it? Am I alone? Are the heralded street parties actually happening (they don't seem to be here)? Are your children wandering around with bits of net on their heads, and bouquets of daisies in their hands? Does that weekend mean more to you than it does to us?
Are you going to watch? And do you think I'm missing out for not doing so?