Looking one’s best for Harry
One should be packing for the royal wedding, but one hasn’t got a thing to wear. The Queen expects one, at times like this, to set a sartorial standard, the more so as her grandson makes an unsuitable match. She’ll be remembering the Duke of Windsor and that other American, with the jaw that could slice bread. Surely no good will come of yet another clothes horse with an annoying accent.
One went to put one’s best fascinator in the hat box, ready for the trip, and found a rip in its innards. It was designed by the great milliner Philip Treacy as an artistic comment on the IUD, that symbol of responsible birth control, and wowed Wills and Kate at their wedding, but one can’t possibly mend the gossamer, or the perished rubber.
One’s other fascinator, the antique dinner plate one used to wear glued to the side of one’s head, fell and shattered into tiny pieces at Princess Eugenie’s engagement party when one tripped on a corgi. One well recalls her tinkling laughter.
That leaves the straw affair, modelled on the Titanic, that Isabella Blow left one in her will. But the cat was sick on it, and it never looked the same after the hot wash cycle.
One thought about stuffing a beanie with tissue paper and pinning a pot of orchids to it, but would one get it through customs? The bowler with the stuffed penguin centrepiece has been seen too often, and one lent Fergie the ikebana hat. Big mistake. It came back with bubble gum stuck to the brim.
The rule about not bringing swords to the wedding is annoying. One had a specially sharpened cutlass put aside for the paparazzi. Nor may one wear one’s medals, they say, which goodness knows the men in my family earned through many wars, back through millennia. One usually wears them as chainmail, but that’s obviously out.
David Beckham spoiled it for everyone when he wore his MBE to Kate and Wills’ wedding, pinned on the wrong side. He should have been made to give it back.
One would wear one’s diamonds, but they slipped down the back of the sofa, and no-one puts their hand down there. They were tiddlers anyway.
A day dress is expected, they say, though one would rather wear a morning coat, like the male guests. It would hide a multitude of puddings.
One has a favourite 80s frock with gridiron shoulders, that one wore to Chuck and Di’s wedding, but one would hate to upstage the bride. Better to wear something in vinyl that wouldn’t show the dirt. Only one doesn’t have anything in vinyl.
No gifts must be brought to the wedding. So much for the potted macrocarpa one planned to deliver by crane. Cameras and mobile phones must be handed in before the ceremony, which surely eliminates the point of going, that special embarrassing shot of the bridal couple falling over drunk that can be sold for a fortune. How unsporting.
The clincher for one, though, is the loo at St George’s Chapel that will only be open for two hours before the wedding, then closed for three hours before opening again. You’d think the royal family would provide portaloos, which lend a festive touch to any big occasion here, but the weak-bladdered will have to get about with their legs crossed.
That’ll be the Scottish influence on the royals, which Meghan will learn about the hard way. There’ll be a shortage of dunny paper, mark one’s words, before the day ends. Even if it’s By Appointment.