The wedding

I’m not going to discuss the wedding that’s on tomorrow (I figure enough people will be doing that from all angles and with all sorts of agendas) so I’ll get it all out of my system today instead.

This morning on Breakfast, they talked to a couple who run the local shop near where Catherine Middleton’s family lives. Apparently it is the shop she goes to when she fancies a chocolate bar. They also mentioned that William has been in for an ice cream or two.

Of course, this could have all just been one of those ho hum obscure brushes with celebrity, like the programme on Channel Four last week where Middletons from all over the woodwork came out to proclaim that they knew Kate when she was nothing but a tiny tyke with a dummy. I heard a revolting woman with short red hair saying how she was Catherine’s 3rd cousin (or something obscure) and how she could just as easily have married William, blah, blah, blah.

Actually they met at university and this woman sounded like she hadn’t managed to get passed primary school so probably not.

Anyway…the piece on Breakfast this morning was nothing like that, after all. The couple (they seemed like lovely, normal people) had had a surprise a while ago when a letter arrived for them. It was an invitation to attend the wedding. A real one! They showed it to the camera. They were so pleased, she had travelled all the way into London to buy a special sari for the occasion.

They really were a lovely couple. The reporter was a moron but you come to expect that.

Having heard about the shop and the invite, we were then taken to Sian standing outside Westminster Abbey, freezing her knees off in the wind – it was a tad chilly first thing this morning. Arrayed at her feet (actually she was on a raised platform) were scores of insane people who had been camped on the footpath for the last 24 hours.

Now I can understand some people wanting to be there to witness an event of this size (possibly so they can say to their grand kids they were there or perhaps because they have no friends) but what I cannot understand is how that justifies voluntarily sleeping rough for 48 hours.

I mean, where are they going to the toilet? Are they showering? Does someone mind their spot if they need to go and buy food? Like I say, totally beyond me.

But there was none of that hanging about on street corners for me today. I had to get the poodles to the kennel, mow the lawn, go to the Talking Newspaper, clean the house and then make my way to the flat in preparation for our impending anniversary trip to Venice.

Mirinda claims the flat is part of our house. If this is the case then anyone who thinks our house is tiny is crazy. It took me two hours to get from the hallway to the fourth bedroom tonight.