Morning everyone. Hope you’ve each and every single one of you, had a fabulous long weekend, and have gorged yourselves stupid on chocolate of every description. I’m Jew-ish, so I’m not entirely sure what choccies have to do with Easter, but I’m a fan, so who cares. Bring it on.
Here’s Sunday’s column, it’s about the royal shmedding, hope you enjoy.
PS: The one in the newspaper was edited a bit, so this is the unedited version.
A MILLION MILES FROM NORMAL – BY PAIGE NICK
SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW, SOMETHING BORROWED, SOMETHING DIAMOND-ENCRUSTED.
Which reminds me, I really need to buy a hat. Something big, and massively ostentatious. Maybe something with large pheasant feathers sticking out of it, and glitter, there must be glitter. It is the royal wedding after all, and those don’t come around very often. What’s that? You plan on watching it at home, in your grubby pyjamas? What! Were you born in a barn?
I wonder if we’ll all get the day off work? Didn’t we used to be a colony? That should count for something. I remember Uncle Charles and Lady Di’s wedding like it was just three decades ago. I was six or seven at the time, and our entire primary school ground to a halt as we all gathered around a small black and white TV set in one of the classrooms to ooh and aah as we watched the carriage proceed down the promenade. Then we all oohed and aahed some more when Di walked down the aisle, her hundred foot train trailing behind her. And we dreamt of being princesses and practiced the queen’s wave in the playground; elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist.
That wedding is one of those rare moments in time that’s become as precious in our collective subconsciouses as that handful of other where were yous? Where were you when JFK was shot? (pre-womb). Where were you when JR got shot? (Sitting on the staircase watching it secretly through the banisters – I was supposed to be in bed.) Where were you when reports hit that lady Di had died? (At work, frightfully hungover). Where were you when Madiba was released? (At work and soon to be hungover) And where were you when 9/11 hit. (Hungover and at work.) Wait a minute, I’m noticing a pattern here. I clearly spend way too much time at work.
But back to the nuptials at hand. I think there are two types of people in the world. Those looking forward to it, and those who really couldn’t give a crap. Hey we’re not as romantic now as we were thirty years ago.
I reckon it’s going to be quite an affair. No soggy beef or chicken on this menu, and definitely no Macarena, or chicken dance. And no embarrassing speech from the best man, unless we get super-lucky.
Getting the nod must be quite a thing. But what on earth would you buy the bride and groom? I somehow don’t think a set of monogrammed towels, some Ginsu knives, or a coffee maker is going to cut it.
I wonder if they have a registry somewhere. Selfridges maybe, or Tescos? And I wonder what’s on it? Perhaps you can choose from the solid-gold toilet seat, the bejewelled tea service, or if that’s all a little too rich for your blood, you and your friends could always club together for a Yacht, or maybe a Jet, Yachts can be so very last season.
Then there’s the wardrobe dilemma? If you do get invited, what on earth to wear? You really don’t want to pitch up in the same Oscar De La Renta as Mrs Skinny Beckham. Unless she insists on standing sideways through the entire thing, then you’ll be safe because nobody will be able to see her.
I do feel for Kate’s Maid of Honour a bit, though. When it comes to something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, there’s no way she’s just going to get away with a couple of sentimental nick knack’s like a garter, a brooch and some sexy blue knickers, like everyone else does. Rather she’s going to have to get something really really old (but not manky or mildewy), something very new and fancy, something borrowed but classy, and of course, something blue diamond-encrusted. And she should probably put quite a bit of thought into it. After all, best friend or not, nobody wants to piss off the future queen with a shitty wedding present.