I hate to admit it but I would have liked an invitation to the Royal Wedding. I certainly would have enjoyed the opportunity to observe at first hand all the pomp, prejudice and prickery that goes on in that dysfunctional family. (Not to mention that it would have raised my status somewhat at the Bowls Club).
Perhaps the Queen doesn’t remember me. I suppose she meets a lot of people and 1954 was a fair way back but you would think I’d have stuck in her mind.
Oh well I’m in good company anyway. A few people, better known than I am, didn’t get an invite either. I just hope Fergie wasn’t dashing out to the letter box every time she heard the postie. Still, she can console herself with a few bottles of expensive brandy and a spot on Oprah which is, I must admit, a lot more than I can manage.
Who writes up the guest list on these occasions anyway? Tony Blair isn’t on this one, nor is his successor Gordon Brown. The Tories are out in force though, Thatcher gets a seat in the third row just behind various Windsor cousins.
Come to think of it it’s not the kind of company I’d be comfortable in.
I’ll keep waiting at the palace gates. Maybe the Queen will glance out her window and spot me. I took my hair rollers out especially.