Michael's essay — When a wedding invitation becomes a diplomatic nightmare
It's the waiting that gets to me. And the pacing. It's the waiting and the pacing that get to me.
Every morning, waiting and pacing for the mail. I'm grateful I still have a postal human instead of those awful community mail boxes, but I wish he would get here with the envelope.
That would be the envelope containing my invitation to the Royal Wedding in May.
I'm all primed to buy a new suit, new pair of shoes, top hat maybe.
I'm ready to book the flight, the hotel; everything is a go except for the darned invitation.
It seems only fair that I be invited to the wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan whatshername Markle.
I watched Season One of The Crown.
A number of years ago, I emceed a state dinner for Her Britannic Majesty at the Royal York Hotel in Toronto. Granted that didn't go very well, but I was there.
I talked to Her Majesty on the Royal Yacht Britannia, when it sailed from Boston to Montreal for the 1976 Olympics. I asked her how the trip went.
I'm not supposed to quote the Queen, but apparently Philip had a rough night.
It was on that trip that I had a drink with the legendary Royal reporter, the late James Whittaker of the Daily Mirror, who described himself and his Fleet street colleagues as "La crème de la scum."
The wedding of Harry and Meghan will be a very big deal. It will make history.
The last time a member of the Royal Family married a divorced American, all hell broke loose.
When Edward, Albert, Christian, George, Andrew, Patrick, David, King Emperor Edward the Eighth, abdicated in 1936, the Empire itself teetered on the brink.
The Archbishop of Canterbury broke out in a nasty case of shingles. Winston Churchill swallowed a cigar and stamped his feet, and Big Ben went silent for the first time since the Little Ice Age.
This time is different. No one really cares that Ms. Markle is a) divorced and b) an actress.
The problem facing the Prince and the Palace is the guest list; on which I'm sure I could find my name.
Diplomats at the Foreign Office and at Number 10 are jumping up and down and turning blue, terrified that if Harry invites the Obamas, President Donald Trump will be royally, pardon the expression, pissed off.
Trump really wants to meet the Queen at Buck House, and because he hates the Obamas with an undying fury, he will be murderous if they get to the Royal wedding before he meets Her Majesty.
Harry and Barry are quite close. Last summer they engaged in a playful interview/conversation in Toronto at the Invictus Games. The interview was broadcast on the Beeb between Christmas and New Year's.
(As an aside, the interview took place just down the street. You'd think one of them could have walked to a Sunday Edition studio for a casual sit-down with me. But I'm not bitter.)
I'm tranquil. I'll just be waiting here for the postal guy. Walking and pacing.
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