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Remember that glorious Saturday night in May?
The one where an ancient institution was dragged – benign as a corgi puppy with its legs in the air – into 2018?
Bathed in photogenic sunlight and blessed with the genuine, beaming smiles of two young and beautiful people, May 19 was a day that left us all reporting joyfully that the most famous family on earth had finally, finally been updated.
Then – backed by the soundtrack of an otherworldly gospel choir and a sublimely righteous preacher – a feminist, divorced woman of colour joined the ranks of the most traditional Anglo institution in the world, and looked set to blow it all up. The royal family, post-Meghan Markle, was never going to be the same.
Her groom, Prince Harry, looked delighted to be ushering his true love, the one he had waited for, into the only world he had ever known. A world of extreme privilege and power but also of awesome pressure and responsibility. He knew she could handle it. His bride, after all, was a self-made millionaire, a World Vision ambassador, an advocate for women at the UN and an acclaimed actress.
The faces of the royals at the wedding said it all. This wasn’t what they were used to – a Duchess who walked herself down the aisle, whose single mum sat notably alone at the front of the church and who forwent frill and froufrou for a gown of stark simplicity.
Nope. Everything was going to be different now.
And then… it wasn’t.