While it is eternally perplexing to me that millions might not watch my wedding online or livetweet the action seconds at a time, it would churlish for Kate in the Countryside to ignore the Big Sloane Bash, so here it is - the view from Pimlico:
First, in Hello mood, here's some detail on my personal affinity with the BSB. My initials are KM, my first name is Kate and well, my walk to work traces the wedding route from the Palace which shows how particularly well-placed I am to comment. I'm practically Kate Middleton. If she had a job. Obviously.
On my way to work on Thursday (Royal Wedding Eve) I amused myself by rootling around within the depths of my bag near Buckingham Palace and watching as police officers wiped sweat from their brows fearing terrorist threat. Gone are the days when a bearded half-Iranian friend and I would scurry past police officers and plot fictional plots in loud whispers yet evade arrest. These chaps looked so troubled that not even my unthreatening pink jacket could reassure them.
Happily I continued unarrested, pausing only to admire the battalion of portaloos stationed along the Mall. Everywhere you looked were photographers in search of corners to capture. One in particular had taken up residence in my cheeky work shortcut. Believe me, dear reader, the internal vitriol I silently aimed at the hapless chap cannot have been good for my soul.
The day itself brought out a fairly surprising level of bright-eyed enthusiasm from even some of my more cynical chums. When one started a Facebook group announcing his intention of camping on the Mall for Wedding Eve, I (wrongly) assumed it was a spoof. But when others started finding nice things to say about Beatrice and Eugenie's universally-derided-dresses, I knew that wedding fever was in fact a damaging social condition.
BOF and I live on the cusp of the action, but our boho-Pad is so on trend that we have no TV with which to actually view it. BOF was at work, livetweeting from the office (the perfect place to assimilate the atmosphere…), so I ducked into a pub to see the Dress and munch regal brekkers.
Inside, in the only room without a monster TV playing out the action, were a family of four with two young children. The father was steadfastly involved in his paper. His daughter, by contrast, kept hopping down from the table to scuttle into the TV bar. Each time, she returned brimming with excitement: 'I saw a princess Daddy!' 'Very good,' said her father, not looking up from his Guardian. 'Sit down and eat your toast please. Much more interesting.' Fighting an uphill Republican battle there I fear.
Later that day I celebrated the understated nuptials with some citrus ale in a microbrewery in Leyton, followed by garage music in the trendy east. Just as Kate would have wanted.