Good Morning.
Yes, I will set my clock and get up before dawn tomorrow to watch the wedding. This is because the great majority of the world's women never grow out of the fairy tale thing despite the behavior of the world's men that should convince them to do it by the age of twelve, plus I've been a devout Anglophile since a trip to the UK many years ago. I absolutely adored the stylish hats and the conservative tweeds and the dogs and the gardens and the rainy weather. I didn't give a tinker's damn that I had to carry an umbrella when I left the hotel. I wasn't interested in shopping at Harrod's or anywhere else, for that matter, but I was quite comfortable in a darkly-paneled pub with a madrigal-sounding name or at an afternoon tea place where one could catch up on the local gossip that sounded even more delicious when circulated in a British accent. Look, Joe's Bar and Grill just isn't the same as The Milkmaid Covered With Hay and a Blizzard at DQ along about four o'clock isn't quite as inspiring as Eton Mess at Claridge's.
Alas, my traveling days are over, but I hope to catch a glimpse of the queen and that dour old Prince Philip and see how they're faring under all of this interesting breakage of protocol. Who would have ever thunk Harry would marry a divorced, bi-racial, American television actress, except, of course, Harry who has marched to his own drummer since the time of his birth and who clearly shares his mother's tendency to accept people on their own terms rather than a prescribed set of requirements. Good for him.
We discussed the situation over lunch on Thursday, my daughter, her husband, and I. The daughter is a pragmatist and said,
"If the queen didn't like it, they'd simply elope so she might as well go along with it." The daughter is right, of course. The longest reigning monarch probably had a gin and Dubonnet before adjourning to the dining room for a watercress soup and roasted quail, kept her calm, and carried on. Think of the upheaval caused by Camilla Hyphenated Something and Sarah Ferguson and even the queen's own sister, Princess Margaret, who tested the limits of palace sensibilities from time to time as I recall. And Harry strikes me as being quite capable of telling anyone who messes with his lady to I don't know what the British idiom is for it but I'm sure it's colourful.
I don't think Meghan will wear white and a veil the length of the church. The tabloids say ivory but I think a very pale gold would be wonderfully regal and set the right tone with maybe flowers in her hair. It would also compliment Harry's dress red military uniform. Tuxedos aren't appropriate for a royal groom, I've learned in the past week, and the bride's arms are supposed to be covered, whatever the other features of the gown. Suffice to say - I think - that there will be none of the so-called sweetheart neckline that passes for elegant in this country. Then there's the matter of the bride's father not being well enough to attend so the question of who will walk her down the aisle is out there in capital letters. Some have suggested her mother and some have said Prince Charles, oh dear, please not. My recommendation is the groom's brother, William. I think it'd be quite lovely and fraternal.
I like the fact that the ceremony will be held, according to church tradition, during the late morning with luncheon for the closest two hundred friends afterward. That's just the beginning, of course. The bride will wear a different dress for the evening bash and I'm betting Harry will turn up in something like jeans and tails with maybe red high top sneakers to keep the red thing going. I saw something like that at a wedding one time and thought it was, actually, quite perfect even though some among my acquaintance would have gasped. Phooey to them. The deal is to soldier on and somehow make do.
Best regards,
Elisabeth
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