Ten years ago, I remember it well. Which in itself is quite an achievement, considering how much I had had to drink, although clearly nothing like as much as Diana's chauffeur that night. I was out with my strictly-platonic friend Roy and after the pub shut he came back to my place and we sat talking until about 3 am, before he left.
Before I had t'internet, I wondered vaguely whether I should check out the news headlines on Ceefax but couldn't be arsed, going instead to bed, to rise at about midday. I nipped to the newsagent, more concerned with getting a Lottery ticket as an 'extra' to slip into my sister's birthday card. I then went to the counter and saw all these papers, with the front page being variously Diana Dead or Diana Seriously Injured. I turned to Jay the newsagent and said "It's terrible what rubbish these tabloids print." No, it's true, he said, she's dead.
Unconvinced I thought I would check out Ceefax at home, and was pleased that I happened to turn the TV on during the news, so it was true. I then realised the news was going on all day. The TV schedules were carefully culled to prevent any offence - only they missed the godslot, the only interesting telly that day, the late great Nigel Hawthorne narrating the history of how Christianity came to England, with the immortal - pre-recorded - line "And you never knew what fate would befall tourists in France in those days..." Great TV blunder! My friend Helen thought Coronation Street was weird, the Rovers being the only pub in Britain not discussing the Death of Diana.
I found the media coverage and public hysteria quite unbelievable, although Brycchan put it into context by describing the scenes of the crowds that gathered to mourn Nelson and to line his funeral route.
I found the attitude of some of my colleagues fairly horrendous. On the Thursday we had an end-of-audit meal, co-hosted in a Greek restaurant by myself and another Senior Auditor (we were the most senior present). People were going on-and-on with their media inspired mourning. I pointed out that our manager had lost his father the previous week, and I asked how many had even offered their condolences let offered the hand and ear of friendship to someone who was clearly very upset. One colleague was going "she was such a devoted mother"; I suggested that that was rubbish, said colleague was a far better mother, who wouldn't have dreamed of going on holiday without her children*, and certainly not sending them away for weeks on end to some boarding school*. Said colleague had deferred her University entrance until her 30s, having been bringing up her children, then went to University part time, and then was conscientious in her juggling an onerous job (and professional study) with the everyday responsibilities of getting the children off to school, supervising homework etc.
At the time I was working in an office on Buckingham Palace Road, and finally decided to go down to the Mall to see what all the fuss was about. Despite my cynicism, my compassion fatigue and my anathema at the hysteria, it was a memorable occasion.
What did not come over on the TV was the scent. An overwhelming scent of fresh flowers mixed with gently burning candlewax. I kept falling into conversation with people with the same views as me, what a load of hysteria but I've come out of curiosity, and it's quite extraordinary. What also lingers was the sense of peace and tranquillity, with the Mall being closed to traffic, allowing people to reclaim the street in safety, away from the incessant roar and smell of motor vehicles.
I wasn't going to watch the funeral, of course, then someone rang me to say that Martin** was playing the organ, so suddenly, it became compulsory viewing. (And didn't he play it well...I have the CD, but only for Martin's organ-playing and he doesn't even get a namecheck). Well, my 11 am appointment to get my legs waxed had to be cancelled, to my annoyance and that of the beautician. Eventually I rearranged it for the next Saturday, going there from breakfast with David in town. I bought a train ticket from Victoria to Streatham Hill, then walked down the High Road to the beauticians, before getting the bus outside WH Smith and inadvertently fare-dodging, which ended me up in Camberwell Green magistrates court, pleading guilty in my absence. So, my current hassle is all the fault of the bloody Royal Family and that stupid bitch being too arrogant to wear a seatbelt. Perhaps I should have done what some high-powered businessman did in high-powered negotiations with the Lambeth Chief Exec - breakdown in tears and say he was very upset at Diana's death; Heather was not sure whether the waterworks were genuine or a clever negotiating tactic.
* okay, I know people have their reasons, and it's not my place to question or criticise valid reasons, but I didn't like this idea that somehow Diana, as well as being a saint, was also a role model parent
** the one great love of my scholdays
