By Cathal Kelly
Columnist
LONDON—The royal wedding’s over. Now you have a terrible decision to make – am I seriously going to work?
No. No, you’re not.
After lurching from your bed in the middle of the night and drinking champagne for the next four hours, you’re too emotional to work.
For instance, halfway through the ceremony you turned to wife, took her tiny hand in yours, and said, “Justin Bieber’s what, eighteen? Why doesn’t he get married so that we can have a national holiday, too?”
Then you cried. Again. And she got busy sanding your deck furniture.
Maybe it was the champagne. But whatever it was, you’re in no shape to operate an overhead crane.
You’ve been looking forward to this day ever since you first saw Kate and William on their coming-out-as-a-couple Swiss ski-holiday in 2004. At the time, you thought it was a re-run of Ski Patrol, but it really affected you.
For the next seven years, you put aside everything else – your friends, your floundering cake business, all that Canadian Tire money that went moldy in a shoebox – so that you could see this through.
Now it’s gone and you’re grieving.
Spend the rest of the day getting over your royal wedding hangover, or, as you described it to your supervisor, “a really huge tapeworm.”
8 a.m. – It took you weeks to make your special royal wedding day crown from crazy glue, thumbtacks, glitter sticks and sheet metal. You even wore it to bed last night. The bleeding has stopped, but there’s tetanus to worry about. Go down to the Open Clinic. Maybe while you’re there, they can help you with your Camilla obsession. A sort of two-for-one.
9 a.m. – If you want to get over something, start by burying all traces of it in the deep well of your soul. That’s what Dad always said. Start removing the Union Jack bunting you’ve wallpapered your front porch with. Decide too late that lighting it on fire is a bad way to expedite things. Now maybe your Australian, Indian and Irish co-workers will end their boycott of poker night.
10 a.m. – You find yourself wondering what Kate’s doing right now. Probably talking to the Queen. Something about new sheriffs and being in town.
11 a.m. – Actual, rather than metaphorical, hangover begins.
12 p.m. – Turns out your wife skipped work, too. But she was hiding from you in the shed. Promise you’ll stop calling her ‘Kate’ and asking her to wear that dress. The two of you sit down to a lovely lunch. Then you ask where the recipe for crumpets is and you get ‘that look’ instead of an answer. Fine. Cold cuts it is. But warn her that these were the cold cuts you bought for your special ‘Six weeks until the Royal Wedding’ brunch, so you never know.
1 p.m. – To relieve tension, you tell that funny story about Harry again. No, no, the funny one; not the deeply offensive one. Too late.
2 p.m. – Is it too early to watch the PVR’d recording of the royal wedding? Once again, you get ‘the look’. Retreat to shed to watch highlights on cellphone. Dry your happy tears with old sock soaked in turpentine. Back to the clinic.
3 p.m. – After a gentle suggestion from your wife, you put your entire collection of royal memorabilia up for sale on eBay. Good thing you didn’t tell her about the storage locker.
4 p.m. – Coronation Street is on. Be strong.
5 p.m. – Aversion therapy – you start thinking republican thoughts. That makes you think of Donald Trump, and you get the giggles, and eventually, hiccups.
6 p.m. – Your wife wants to have a serious talk about your behaviour lately. Remind her that you have a tapeworm, and whatever you say is actually the worm talking.
7 p.m. – In conciliatory gesture, tell your wife you want to get married again in Westminster Abbey. You’re not reassured when she wonders who you’re marrying this time.
8 p.m. – The sun is setting on the most perfect wedding day of your life. Okay, second. After Diana’s.
9 p.m. – Time for bed. You need to rest up for the Queen’s Jubilee.
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