Before most people rose from their beds on Saturday, I, along with thousands of other peasants across the Commonwealth, witnessed the union of an American actress and the Queen’s red-headed grandson.
In the brief span of minutes that my associate Don and I spent hurtling down the highway towards the Jack Graham Community Centre in Bristol, it struck me that this was one of the oddest assignments I had ever undertaken.
To gather in a hall and sip mimosas with strangers while watching a television program at 5:30 in the morning is one thing, to come out on the other side with a coherent narrative to put on paper is another.
In addition, I had decided against any research about the Royals or the bride and groom to-be, opting instead to rely on my fellow viewers to fill in the blanks for me. Much like the reality shows that drop naked people in the forest to see if they can survive, I was going to have to get by with just my wits.
Fearing I would appear too much like the disheveled, moon-faced outsider that I am, I asked Don if I should tuck in my tuxedo t-shirt.
He didn’t think it would make much difference.
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