I did it.
I made it through the day without seeing the Royal Wedding.
I basically just stayed in town, chilled out and read my book between bookings at work, while everyone else watched the nuptials. And I made the most of people being transfixed by it all to have a mooch round Sainsbury’s – where I noticed a special sausage, from Heck, in honour of the occasion (Sweet ginger and American mustard flavour) – enjoying being able to get down aisles without people randomly stopping.
It was lovely.
I mean, since then I’ve been treated to blow-by-blow accounts on the internet, from Carole, from Carole again discussing the blow-by-blow accounts she discussed with my mum, the internet again, and probably Carole when she remembers another nugget she hasn’t told me about. She told me James Corden was there, for example, but then he would be because he’s rapidly becoming the new Stephen Fry. By which I mean if you need an opinion on something, or someone to be in something, just get James Corden. He’ll always say yes. Unless Stephen Fry’s got in there first, obviously.
And even now, nearly twelve hours after the event, there are various articles littering up my Internet homepage which provide a breakdown and analysis of the whole day. I know more, just from opening a web browser, about the movement of Harry and Meghan today (and, mainly, what they were wearing to do it) than I do about what I have done myself.
So I had a nice long read. Plus, I think it’s considered bad form to “rest your eyes” for a bit at a wedding, but when you’re reading a book on a gloriously sunny afternoon it’s more than okay.
I did, however, have to suffer the cringe element that comes with the particular book series I am currently reading. I have returned to the world of Dirk Pitt, underwater adventurer and occasional sexist pig. Clive Cussler has an annoying habit when it comes to his books. I originally thought it was just something he did in the modern books, but as I work my way through the back catalogue I find it with alarming regularity.
He writes himself into the books.
But the way he does it is almost to hurry the story along. Take the book I’m reading at the moment. It’s called Inca Gold and concerns a hunt for, well, Inca Gold which started with a ship captured by Frances Drake being washed inland by a tidal wave and is now concerned with international art and antiquities smuggling.
Looking for this Inca Treasure is tricky. They are looking for a very specific island, with a very specific set of characteristics. With no luck. Which means that this could be a very long section of the book.
But have no fear. It doesn’t need to be. Because Clive Cussler can write himself into the book, as a barman in a convenient road-side diner, and through the course of one conversation reveal, in detail, everything about a particular location someone from the area once found which happens to entirely match with the fabled place they’re looking for.
I mean… come on. There’s another book where Cussler (as the author) puts the lead characters in great danger and then saves them as Cussler the character.
And then when they meet Cussler the character in the next book, no-one remembers him. Except he’s vaguely familiar to them, for some reason.
And none of it is done in the light-hearted way you’d find Stan Lee in a Marvel movie. Stan has never been intrinsic to the plot in any of the films. Clive is right up there, filled with derring do and a handy way to move the story along.
Still, I’m sure I enjoyed it more than I would have the wedding…