Why the royal wedding matters — or doesn’t
Two Herald reporters’ thoughts echo many Kiwis’ views on the celebratory hoo-ha
I can’t count the number of times my father has scolded me for gushing over celebrity and royal romances. “You’re a smart woman, I don’t know why you’re interested in dumb things like that,” he’d say.
And he’s right. I have no good reason to look forward to watching a successful woman marry into the royal family and kiss goodbye to every ounce of independence she has ever had.
Every decision she makes, from simple things like outfits and hairdos to deeply personal things like children, will be scrutinised and analysed. Why would I celebrate that?
No matter how progressive my beliefs are, the idea of a fairy-tale romance fills me with so much joy I’m almost embarrassed by it.
It could be the romantic novels, movies and music I’ve consumed since I started school that conditioned me to dream up my own romantic ending.
I thought I’d be married by my mid-20s and travelling around the world on a picture-perfect honeymoon.
When Meghan Markle swept into Prince Harry’s life the rumours he would propose began swirling immediately.
I wasn’t convinced she was the real deal at first. No one was good enough for the Party Prince-comeright.
But, their first televised interview together sealed it for me, they looked so truly in love and I was soon cheering them on.
It wasn’t long before I asked my hairdresser for a cut and colour that was “More Meghan, less Kate”.
Watching the pomp and ceremony of the day will feel like being transported into those fairytale stories and I don’t feel bad for ignoring the sacrifices Meghan will have to make for her Prince Charming. I don’t so much hate the royals as have next to no interest in them. I don’t even particularly care if New Zealand becomes a republic or not.
The most vested interest I have in republicanism lies in the hope that if we were severed from the monarchy we’d all be spared the frankly bizarre spectacle of fawning over major life events of blueblooded Brits who have no real bearing in Aotearoa.
Every child is a miracle and all that, but the only time I ever paid attention to any of the three royal babies was when I briefly harboured an unpopular and slightly meanspirited conspiracy theory that Princess Charlotte was just Prince George wearing a wig.
In a similar vein, my interest in Meghan and Harry’s wedding has risen in direct proportion to how much we know about Meghan’s borderline-insane extended family.
“What is Meghan going to wear at the reception?”, “Will Trump be invited?” “What about Obama?”, “Exclusive: gift registry for royal wedding revealed” — no thank you, I will not be wasting my time learning any of this information.
On the other hand . . . news that Meghan’s father, Tom Markle, staged photos with the paparazzi showing him looking at books about Britain and googling his daughter as part of some hare-brained scheme dreamed up by her half-sister to curry favour with the public?
Her seemingly deranged halfbrother’s crawling out of the woodwork claiming to be thick as thieves now his apparently estranged sibling is marrying royalty?
Inject that directly into my veins, thanks.
I am working a 6am shift today and hope the Markles will step up for the occasion with some lastminute chaotic capers to brighten my day.