JULY 21st, 1986:AS ONE of The Irish Times'journalists in London in the 1980s Maeve Binchy developed considerable expertise at watching royal weddings (more anon) and the media and spin doctors' shenanigans that surrounded them. She described the fevered final few days before the marriage in July 1986 of Sarah Ferguson and Prince Andrew (separated 1992: divorced 1996) in this front-page piece.
When Sarah Ferguson wakes up this morning in the house of her fiancé’s grandmother, she won’t just stretch, reach for a cigarette, have a cup of coffee and toast and wonder what to do with her day, like many another horsey Sloane will do. Heaven no!
Sarah was put off the fags long ago when Royal nuptials seemed likely and she wasn’t allowed to have the normal pound of sweets a day that every reformed smoker needs for three months, because they said she was already a bit pudgy for a princess. Look at Diana please, and learn. One newspaper set a cameraman on her at Ascot just to count the chocs she ate; then the paper delivered a diatribe against her greed. Another paper sent a spy to Madame Tussaud’s to measure the hips of the wax model of Sarah and came up with a guess of 42 inches. No, there will be no breakfast today.
And she won’t need to wonder what she will do when she gets up. Her timetable, hour by hour, has been handed out to press people the world over. She will read with everyone else that she has already packed for the honeymoon and that she has taken all the telephone calls that she is going to have time to take from friends wishing her well.
This morning there is yet another rehearsal at Westminster Abbey. So far these have been less than glorious. The adults have all been rooted to the ground with nerves and the children quite wild with excitement. There has been face-pulling and even punch-ups about carrying the train. This morning is the last try. The Archbishop and staff of Westminster Abbey are not the kind of showbiz folk who believe that a disastrous dress rehearsal makes a stunning first night.
Then it’s back to Clarence House and a lunch party. Among the guests will be Sarah’s mother, who will go into history for having asked innocently where else could one meet one’s husband except at polo.
Sarah’s stepmother will also be there. The two ladies get on very well in public and all niceties are observed, but the crack is not judged to be mighty.
Then there’s a rest of an hour – hardly to ingest lunch, since Sarah Ferguson hasn’t been let near a plate of food in weeks, but to calm her down and dress her up for the next outings: a champagne reception at the Guards’ Polo Club and dinner at Windsor Castle. Her future mother-in-law and father-in-law will be at both dos and so will Charles and Diana. Andrew will probably be allowed to have a drink and might even be given something to eat. The public hasn’t developed any dangerous anxiety about his waist yet.
The full guest list for both these glittering functions has not been made available yet to the press, but perhaps Sarah Ferguson knows whether the question mark over Nancy Reagan’s name has been removed and whether she will have another delight ahead of her . . . earnest conversation with America’s first lady.
The timetable suggests that it will be early to bed. Which indeed is to be devoutly hoped for. With a glass of nice, warm, fat-free milk, two super-strength Mogadons which would fell an ox, and a very few minutes last-minute wonderings could it all possibly be ever worthwhile.
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