I arose at 5 A.M. and sat watching, homemade latte in hand, until 7 (ABC with the vets, Diane Sawyer and Barbara Walters; Katie Couric on CBS was wearing head-to-toe cake-frosting pink—never a good idea).
Around 6 my husband unexpectedly joined me. I admired the bride’s dress. He admired the Rolls-Royce she drove to the wedding in.
Kate wore slightly too much blusher and mascara, in my opinion (reportedly she did her own makeup), and her breasts appeared a little too pointy, but otherwise she was just about perfect. Her mother, the party-favors entrepreneur, also looked great, as did her sister, Pippa, whose deep plié to pick up Kate’s train was flawlessly executed (stretch fabric was undoubtedly involved).
This was one of the least spontaneous “live” events I have ever seen. Really, it was all so discreet and appropriate that my mind began to drift to breakfast. Hats to the rescue: There was some crazy headgear going on in Westminster Abbey. A few, like Victoria Beckham’s, were intentionally and chicly eccentric; others, such as Princess Beatrice’s pink ribbon thing, were merely weird (in both cases the designer was the mad British hatter Philip Treacy). The queen’s flat primrose boater was sadly unbecoming, while Camilla’s swoopy-doopy beige job (also Treacy) had the look of an Elizabethan galley setting sail.
After all that pageantry and romance, I went to Pilates class. I needed hard core exercise to get the fluff out.