Shameful Confession Time

I was watching The Queen round at my mother's house yesterday, and it brought back some horrible memories.

On 31st August 1997, I was (surprise!) struggling to sleep, and thus was listening to BBC Five on the radio. News came in that there had been a car crash in Paris, that Dodi Fayed was dead, and Princess Diana injured. As later reports gave more details, it was announced that she had also died.

I went to work at 12.00, positioned myself in the cookware section of the shop due to it having a radio, and kept the news on, informing assorted unaware customers that yes, what they were hearing was true. At the time, we were selling cut-out Diana postcards, so I had them removed from display.

Being a bit of a news junkie in any case, I was caught up in the media whirl surrounding the event, as the feeding frenzy reached saturation point. And here's the really shameful part: on the Wednesday or Thursday, I don't remember which, I headed into town after work, spent over two hours queuing at Glasgow City Chambers, and signed a book of condolence.

I know, I know, horrific behaviour, I don't know what I was thinking. Luckily, that seemed to shake me out of it. It may have been reading the preceding messages that did it, every last one an overly sentimental paean addressed to a dead person who would never see it. Maybe it was the horrible pressure put on the Royals for their evil transgression of not being media whores who exploit emotion for their own dubious reasons. Maybe it was repeated exposure to Tony Blair's "people's princess" speech. Or perhaps it was the many re-showings of that godawful Martin Bashir interview with the vacant, manipulative tart in bambi eyeliner that did the trick. Whatever, by the time the funeral took place, I was back into my default, cynical misanthrope state of mind.
And for that I am truly grateful.