I know of a young woman about to marry a serving member of the Royal Air force. Not Kate Middleton, but my daughter Nicola. Her fiance has just begun a four month long posting to the Falkland Islands, so he'll come back to a frenzy of preparations for a wedding in July.
News of a wedding is always good - there's always a story of happiness and commitment there. I'm delighted about Nicola's situation, and I can't find it in me to be grumpy about the forthcoming royal nuptials. Yes, there will be a relentless tide of publicity, the shops will be full of souvenir tat, and the BBC will fawn and scrape obsequiously. Yes, the monarchy is a fossilised relic of an unjust and outdated model of society that belongs on the scrapheap. None of this will be the fault of the young people involved, and I wish them well. Like Nicola and her fiance Chris, they met in St Andrews, just six or seven miles away from where I sit now. There's a nice syncronicity to all of this that I am enjoying.
It's just a month since my father's funeral, and it is good to be reminded that life is a regenerative process. I've been utterly flat and ill for the last month, having massively overdrawn my stamina and energy accounts during the time of my father's death, and I'll take my comfort from where I can find it.
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