When the wedding started I found a spot near Windsor Castle’s entrance, where I could watch the ceremony on a big screen. People who line the roads at weddings are, by definition, the most die-hard royalists, and all the usual figures were out in force: the men bellowing and ringing bells in the hope of convincing a passing American TV crew they are an actual town crier; the men in suits made of Union Jacks.

I have just left the right worshipful and his myrmidons about a sneaker of five gallons!

Perhaps her refusal to marry him would be the shot across the bows Jack needed to help him face his demons. But somehow she doubted it.

For the training college annual magazine, at the end of the reports of the sports clubs, I wrote a Woolfish piece set in a city dancehall.