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.

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.

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.

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