Confession at 9.10 a.m.: tears rolling down the face. So much for not giving a damn about the royal wedding. I didn’t get up early, just thought to turn on the TV after breakfast, at 8.15, on the off-chance there might be coverage – and found every single channel fixated. Watched them on the balcony and finally got to see a replay of the highlights on French CBC, in French! And then the other channels, going back to the arrivals, the walk down the aisle, the ceremony.
Love it. Just love it, I don’t care how ridiculous, sentimental, maudlin. The dress is stunning, she’s a lovely, unaffected woman with a beautiful smile, she’s – this is very important – a brunette. Loved Harry’s messy hair, one touch of normalcy. Hated those absurd hats. Loved her father’s face as he walked her down the aisle. Loved how she waved at the crowds before entering the Abbey, how she said, “Oh my!” as she walked out on the balcony and saw the many thousands gathered to cheer her.
The New Yorker has an apt cover this week, the young couple in bed with the covers drawn up to their chins in terror, while around them the Queen, Prince Charles and the press gather to comment, point and stare. I don’t envy them, trying to make a marriage under glaring lights. But I wish them well.
Loved the trees in Westminster Abbey. Wish his mother had been there to see it all.
