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A royal wedding to fall in love with and the handbag coat

Stumbles in - tripping over a string of flag emblazoned bunting, an empty Prosecco bottle, spent party poppers and, inexplicably, a roll of tin foil (something to do with fashioning crowns in the late afternoon).

Plonks herself down in an armchair before declaring: "Reader she married him".

This reporter is of course referring to the royal wedding between Meghan Markle and Prince Harry on Saturday. And wasn't it just wonderful? There is no one more surprised than this reporter.

She professes she doesn't even like weddings. Marriage yes. In her humble opinion we should all be doing that, and making it last a lifetime.

But weddings - what a rigmarole. This reporter has never been able to get her head around the need for such a grand scale, public performance of something so special and intimate. She proclaims she is all for a grand occasion, a chance to dress up in a pretty frock and imbibe the wine. However a wedding should be something small scale - as teeny tiny as the little bride and groom upon a wedding cake. Minuscule. But HUGE on feeling.

Bring the royal family into the equation and the problem is simply magnified to gargantuan proportions. They alone are problematic. A family built upon the plunderous colonisation of countless nations is something this reporter defies anyone to try and repackage up with a ribbon of positivity.

A family which exemplifies the restrictions, and cruelties, of this country's lingering class system. A system based on entrenched historical assumptions of worth rather than a true assessment of individual merit. Dear reader, you can see why this reporter had her reservations.

Dutifully however she switched on her television set. If only in recognition it would be remiss as one who professes to 'know her news' not to sit witness to this historic occasion. And as the camera zoomed in on Meghan Markle and her mother Doria Ragland in their wedding car en route to St George's Chapel she realised something phenomenal was about to happen here.

And happen it did. From the way Meghan walked herself down the aisle in a statement of female empowerment, to the perfectly choreographed moment in which Harry pulled back Meghan's veil during the first hymn, through Rev Michael Curry's barnstorming sermon on the "power in love", via a gospel choir's version of "Stand By Me", to the sheer bravery and poise in which Meghan's mother held herself throughout the whole service, miles from home, alone, tears of joy and pride in her eyes - the whole thing was indescribably delicious.

Throw in a cacophony of glamorous guests - 'future American President' Oprah Winfrey striding down the aisle to take her seat in the church first, Amal Clooney (who won the style prize in her mustard yellow Stella McCartney ensemble), Posh and Becks, James Cordon, Elton John, Idris Elba.

The beautiful simplicity of Meghan's wedding dress, designed (without coincidence) by the first female artistic director of Givenchy, Clare Waight Keller. Described by Vogue as "a glass of cool water" and expertly paired with a veil emblazoned with the flora of every Commonwealth country.

Prince William and Harry walking up to the chapel in full military regalia - a public walk which went some way to repairing the damage of the infamous walk the pair were forced to do behind their mother's coffin under the full glare of the world as boys. The empty chair left beside William in the chapel in honour of Princess Diana.

The perfect kiss on the steps, the look of gap-toothed joy on the face of Meghan's page boy, the Twitter flurry over whether Harry really did murmur to Meghan at the altar, "I'm sh**ing it". The way they never stopped holding hands.

This reporter declares that if there had to be such a public royal wedding - and indeed she concedes we are still many moons away from royals being able to elope to Gretna Green - then this was the perfect wedding to have.

A celebration of black culture, inclusivity, women, love, glamour and family, it has left many a broadsheet columnist scratching their heads over which really is the true Britain - the right-wing Brexit one, or the one in which a black pastor and a black gospel choir steal the show at a royal wedding? This reporter knows which one she would plump for.

Of course we have to move on. There are plenty of other things that warrant our attention. For instance they are putting coats on handbags now. This new trend has been sparked by the 'need' to protect expensive designer handbags from scratches and rain showers.

This reporter admits she finds this new idea as perplexing as the manner in which some people keep the plastic covers on their three piece suits to save the sofa cushions. What is the point of this endless preservation - of bags, of sofas, (of royal institutions) - if you never intend to show off what you have been preserving in its true natural, unfettered state?

Or perhaps a big reveal is always calculated into the timeline. A time when the covers are whipped off. In which case, when does the unveiling happen? Royal weddings perhaps?







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