Behind any Royal wedding pulses — among its hordes of fretful planners — is the atavistic fear that the bride will be upstaged by someone.
Maybe it’ll be a precocious pageboy. Or perhaps a bridesmaid’s shapely derriere.
It’s a funny old wedding, however, in which the bride is upstaged by the clergy.
And yet that is exactly what happened.
It began as a largely routine Royal wedding, remarkable only for the extra wattage in its star turnout.
The weather was perfect, the crowds gathered and the Queen disembarked from her Rolls Royce dressed in a shade that no other nonagenarian in the world would be self-possessed enough to attempt.