Some fairytales just don't turn out OK

"Where's your bunting," said a Green Lane neighbor one early August morning 25-years ago. Being uncertain exactly what constituted 'bunting', I muttered something about not having gotten around to it yet. However, being the very quick study that am, I deduced that bunting was all the Union Jacks and assorted bits of Royal-centric bric-a-brac that hung from all the houses on Green Lane, throughout the village of Bradwell, and spilled over to the broader environs of Gorleston, and the large centre of Great Yarmouth, Norfolk, England, that had been called home by me for the previous three-hundred and sixty something days, and would soon be relegated to memory as my (now ex) wfe and I departed for home in Canada.

The reason for the bunting and bunting discussion centered around the forthcoming nuptial vows of one Charles Windsor and Lady Diana Spencer in early August of 1981. People in the Great Yarmouth area were mighty pumped about the wedding, and were especially enchanted since the rapturously lovely Lady Di happened to be a Norfolk girl, born a few miles to the north, on the Royal estate of Sandringham.

Anyway, it was too late in the game for us to get bunting, so I found a Union Jack plastic shopping bag in the house and hung it from the porch light fixture. That seemed to work. I mean, we're not a big bunting sort of place in Canada, so it all was a bit alien to me.

Anyway, Chuck and Di got married, and we watched the rites on TV. We had even toyed with going down to London to actually catch sight of the principals and the entourage as they made their way to St. Paul's Cathedral. However, when we realized what crowds there would be, we opted for the televised version, instead.

I, of course (like many red-blooded males) fell madly in love with the winsome, doe-eyed Diana at almost first glance. Consequently many of us were astonished when we realized this was not a bond created in heaven. Chuck, it seems, retained his horniness for that Camilla person, who actually had the cheek to show up at the wedding, and offered Charles a lewd wink and even more questionable gesture as he took his place at the altar of the cathedral. Well, actually just made that up, but she might have done just that, knowing her. Anyway, Chuck knew she was there, and so did Di. Now, those of us less in the know would be excused for thinking about Diana's chagrin over Camilla, "What are you thinking, girl? No contest. You are just the hottest little patootie in the whole realm, and she looks like somebody who should be cleaning the toilets at your local pub. You won the boy. Relax, lie back, think of England and produce a couple of heirs, and that's about all you need to consider."

Anyway, the fable (and fable it was, because our fantasies didn't approach reality) didn't have a happy story book ending. It reached it's dramatic and excruciatingly tragic denouement in a Paris roadway underpass nearly nine years ago. Chuck then married the toilet scrubber a few years after that, and nobody paid his behavior and horniness much attention after that.

But, I have often thought that Diana played it foolishly. There were things she just did not get. The most important one was, Royal do not marry for love. They screw for love, but marriage is another matter, and all revolves around lines of succession. So, Diana could have had it made if she had played her cards right. She would have produced her lads, and then she could have taken her own lovers, if she had been discreet. Meanwhile, she would have had money, gorgeous clothes, nice houses and cars and the only price she would need to have paid was to offer her Royal 'babe-ness' at certain official functions. Not a bad job. But, she chose not to. She chose to be 'out there' with her lovers, and to diss the heir to the throne in public places, and ultimately came, as they say, 'to a bad end.'

So sad really, and such was not among my thoughts on that August morning when I hung out my shopping bag bunting. I resented Charles for having laid claim to such a peach, but still congratulated him for what seemed like wonderful taste. Well, his taste was ultimately not quite so good, but if he's happy, I don't really care.

The day of the wedding was a good one. The sun was shining brightly. We wandered through the streets of our village, and even attended a few street parties. We then went down to the Gorleston waterfront and watched the tall ships parade. I was glad to be there on such an occasion.

Now, an awful lot has happened to all of us in that quarter of a century. and the lovely Diana is merely a postscript. That's kind of sad.