The king the queen and I

After weeks of anticipation, the Royal Wedding is over. The bunting is being taken down, plates washed up, and that post-Christmas feeling is settling in. When I'm old, frail and can't remember my own name, I won't remember the time I spent watching TV, the internet sites I visited, or phone calls with my friends, but hopefully I'll remember the history I lived through, the memories shared by millions, so I can say 'I remember where I was'. Sadly the human brain seems to have a filter that saves the saddest events, so here's a peek into that day for my withering old self, I better make a note of my Blogger password...

After an 8am start I grabbed some breakfast and sat in front of a TV that my mother had fired up hours ago. With the smell of food creeping out of the kitchen, and the sight of a small group of people dressed in their finery entering Westminster Abbey, this historical event was finally underway. The reassuring voice of Huw Edwards announced their arrival, naming various friends and family. Other reporters were out on the Mall meeting those members of the public who had camped out to secure a good view of the couple, tired but excited, their faces reflecting the mood of the nation. Politicians and officials smiled at the camera, proclaiming their best wishes, such joy only added to the surreal sense of the whole thing. Footage of previous royal ceremonies offered a glimpse into the history of the day, and the nationwide street parties harked back to a time gone by.

Views of Buckingham Palace and Clarence House showed little activity yet, offering me a perfect window in which to get myself ready for the day. My mother and her friend also took it upon themselves to use this time to transport the food and such round to a neighbours house, which would be our HQ for the day. So as to avoid the inevitable talking that would drown out any television commentary the BBC was offering, I chose to watch the majority of the build-up and service at home. A choice which I have since learned was a wise one, as the gathered 50-something year old women unable to contain their excitement apparently lived up to my expectations. With my cynical father cleaning the roof, I had the TV to myself.

The arrival of foreign dignitaries and royal families brought with it a feeling that things were really starting to happen, upping the pomp by a palpable amount. A series of almost comical minibuses announced the arrival of our own royal family, and Westminster was almost full. Finally a sighting of two figures resembling toy soldiers signalled the start of what would be a proud day for the monarchy and Britain. As the future King and his best man made their way up the aisle I was reminded of my secondary school history lessons. While they may be seen as Wills and Harry now, future generation will talk about them as we do previous monarchs, suddenly the significance of the day was evident against that most historic of backdrops. Yet amidst the grandeur was a man on his wedding day. And as this man's grandparents set off to see their grandson be wed, their exit announced to the gathered crowds by a short fanfare, they passed by statues of his other ancestors. This was a family event. A family event shared by billions.

With only the most anticipated of guests now absent, the excitement was at a high, as the nation held its breath to see the most discussed and speculated about piece of clothing. Then the cameras switched from the abbey, to a shot of a car and awning, a flash of white just visible. While craning my neck every which way wouldn't make any difference with a televisions screen, I couldn't help it. This was it. My personal loathing of bridal fashion over the last few years, had left me with just one thought. Please have sleeves. As the bride was helped into the car and her train arranged on the seat (another clue) the world was given its first view of the dress. It had sleeves! Beautiful lace sleeves. Good girl.

The crowds who had being cheering at every car and squirrel were given their first money shot of the day, and reassurance for those who had been roadside for days. The steady drive from the Goring Hotel offered little more information on the dress despite the large windows, but her relaxed smile was enough for now. As the car slowed to a perfectly lined up halt and the door opened, I feared for the sound men. For those who had declared their territory around Westminster, this was their moment. Stepping out of the car, Miss Middleton looked like a princess. Poised and elegant, serene yet assured, regal was the word. The crowning glory of her consistently impeccable style. The 1950s silhouette with its perfectly cut pleats, and the 2 metre 70 cm train exquisitely decorated with embroidery done by the Royal School of Needlework, complemented the top half and completed the vision, . Thankfully having ignored the fashionistas pleas for something 'modern' we were presented with a classic design, that unlike fashion will not age. I'm sure my elderly self agrees. 

The noise from outside having announced her arrival, Westminster prepared for yet another chapter in the history books. As the 1900 guests laid eyes on the bride, only one person was yet to see her. A quick glance from Harry accompanied by a grin and a whisper in his brother's direction, left me wishing I could read lips. Finally as she reached the alter, and joined her soon-to-be husband by his side, William saw her for the first time. My wish had been granted, 'You look beautiful' he mouthed. The Archbishop of Canterbury took the stage, and so it began.

When the Kate finally said 'I will', proclaiming her entry into that most famous of families, the roar from outside could be heard in the abbey. It was official. Overjoyed, those both inside and outside of the service belted out a rendition of Jerusalem, that most patriotic of songs. Thankfully 'England's green and pleasant land' had held off on the rain, and so as the newlyweds took their first steps outside as man and wife, they were greeted by the open top carriage, the perfect vehicle for such a fairytale. Winding through the streets of London, flanked by the Household Cavalry, the couple's happiness was clear as they smiled and waved to the cheering masses. As they disappeared into Buckingham Palace, they reporters set about dissecting the morning's events while the crowd surged forward down the Mall. Spotting yet another gap in the broadcast, I dashed round to my neighbour's house where the champagne and bacon butties had been flowing for hours, just in time to witness the kiss(es). The Duchess' reaction of, 'oh wow', as she stepped out onto the balcony to the assembled Union Jacks below, was a reminder that here was a girl raised like every other, now stood shoulder to shoulder with the Queen on her wedding day. And she didn't even have to kiss a frog to get there. The Battle of Britain Memorial Flight, led by the impressive Lancaster bomber, soared over the palace signalling the final salute to the couple. The Royal family and the Middletons headed back through the doors, with the Duchess taking one final look over her shoulder at a sight that she will surely never forget.

With the Royals retreating into privacy, we ventured outside with trays and plates to begin our celebration. The red, white and blue bunting strewn over the front of the house gave away our not-so-secret location, and the addition of tables, chairs and a barbeque on the front lawn only highlighted us to the passing motorists, all of whom were having a good nosey. From miniature flags in the fairycakes, to a white chocolate dessert bedecked with raspberries and blueberries, and even a small bride and groom topping the main cake, there could be no doubt what we were celebrating. With the tables threatening to collapse under the weight of the food, we toasted William and Kate and began to demolish the assorted sausages and trifles.

With our stomachs suitably red, white and blue, we reclaimed our seats in front of the TV for the action replays and analysis. We recited the various facts we had heard all morning; who had designed what, how many horses there were, what Boris Johnson was giving them as a present (a tandem bike - I love that man), and judged the outfits. Suddenly an announcement from one of the commentators told us that the couple were about to leave the palace in their mystery machine vehicle. The cameras found the Aston Martin driven by the Duke himself, his bride sat next to him, still in her dress. A learner plate, balloons and ribbons covered the car, and the registration plate read 'Just Wed', decorations which we felt were probably the work of one Prince Harry. Escorted overhead by a search and rescue helicopter flown by William's RAF colleagues, which seemed to be a welcome surprise even to the royal couple, they made their way to Clarence House. As they disappeared from view behind the gates, the television announced that this would be the end of their broadcast, and so we set about clearing up our abandoned plates, and bringing in the chairs.

A few days later and my sugar high is starting to wear off, but the nation is still basking in the joy on a sunny May Day Bank Holiday. Leftovers are being eaten up, and speculation about the unknown honeymoon destination is still running riot. But for now William will be returning to work like the rest of the country, with everyone feeling maybe just that little bit happier. If nothing else, this occasion proved that a common happiness can still bring people together as much as a common tragedy, a reassuring thought in these times.