Glorious

Bank Holiday Friday. It's another fine sunny day in England, and I have only one objective: to avoid seeing, hearing about, or in any way discussing The Royal Non-Event. The stakes are huge. If I catch sight of so much as one inbred idiot in a silly hat, or hear a serious conversation about "those dresses", I may not be responsible for my actions. There's no telling what tragedies could unfold if I end up going berserk with a hardback copy of The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists.

Considering that the corner of Shropshire I'm spending the weekend in seems to have been drenched in its entirety by an unsubtle colour scheme of red white and blue, and every single pub and shop seems to be showing the bloody thing on telly, I could be in for a long day. The area seems to be a conservative heartland, a fact reflected in the choice of newspapers in the shops (only The Daily Mail, The Daily Express, The Daily Star, The Sun, and The Times. And I have a suspicion that anyone who buys the latter gets branded a dangerous leftie). The locals are so excited by it all, they can barely keep from spilling their Pimms.

Such is the wedding-mania around here that Ironbridge's "world-famous" pie shop, Eley's, apparently sent a magnificent, purpose-baked pork pie to the event as a present for the happy couple. On the shop's counter they're proudly displaying a letter from Buckingham Palace which thanks them for the gift. Sadly there's no photograph to accompany it, so I can only wonder as to the size and grandeur of the pie itself. I find myself with a mental image of some multi-layered ziggurat of pork at the centre of the royal banquet, with the blushing bride smiling for the cameras, sinking a knife through the pastry to cut the first jelly-drenched slice for herself.

I'll never know whether this was actually the case, because in spite of the best efforts of the royalty-crazed citizens of Ironbridge and Much Wenlock, I do indeed manage to avoid all sight of The Non-Event. And before retiring for the day, I have my own meal to look forward to; not an ounce of pork or pastry to be found, and not a single silly hat for miles around. Bliss.