This just in: Prince William to marry Kate Middleton.
I’m not ready. I’m still recovering from my first royal wedding. I know I sound like a block shaped biscuit eating housewife who’s been hoarding copies of The Sun for 31 years.
It’s just that every time I think I’ve recovered from any form of romantic idealism (my own included), along comes a shiny toothed couple walking down that aisle.
I was eleven when Lady Diana Spencer entered my life. She livened up page after page of my giant yellow scrap book. Lady Diana, Lady Di, Diana, Diana, dresses and dimples and diamonds and boots. I loved her. I loved her hands. Her hats? Not so much.
She kept me company while I waited for my own first prince at a time when I thought he and Charles would be all we ever needed.
Wrong. And I got that. I understood, well before the royal divorce, that I couldn’t claim to be a victim of the Cinderella story. That might have passed for my mother’s generation but I had no excuse not to be independent and adventure seeking. Nothing else made sense.
And then I proceeded to fall hard and fall again.