Long live the King

Well, after all of that fuss and kerfuffle – worrying about seating arrangements, soggy ground, security, each blink of a two-hour visit – the Prince and Miss Middleton have come and gone.

We reported for duty, dark and smart with our official St Andrews scarves on, at 8:45 this morning in St Salvator’s Quad (the oldest architectural landmark on campus, dating to the mid-fifteenth century). Clipboards in hand, we stood shivering in the rain and wind for an hour and a half, although I spent a fair bit of that time in the bathroom by the radiator. Students and staff trickled in and were seated by student ambassadors dressed in their red gowns by strict St Andrews caste standards – gown all the way on for freshers, on one shoulder for second year, the other shoulder for third, and worn hanging off the elbows for soon-to-be-grads – with careful deference for anyone old enough to be a VIP.

At 10:45 the choir began to sing, beautiful Latin hymns broadcast throughout the quad. And then at 11:15, right as we had all decided that we would patriotically freeze to death, the sun burst from behind a cloud. The bells rang. The estates gentlemen, dressed in full regalia and carrying the University’s six maces, marched in formation through one of the gates followed by the Prince and Miss Middleton.

She is SO thin, but stunning. He is actually more attractive in person than in pictures. He gave a lovely (short) speech about how nice it was to be “home,” how St Andrews was the best university in the world (followed by a rousing cheer from the attendant students) and how honoured he was to support the University’s 600th anniversary campaign.

Ah-ha! Now comes my bit. As Wills and Kate recessed from the dais (left the stage) I organised my eight VIPS – all tutors, house cleaners or residence hall managers for the Prince during his University days – into a horse-shoey shape next to the green carpet, shallow enough so that no royal feet must tread upon the grass while they shake hands, but not so shallow that we take up too much room. Thusly organised, I stepped back behind the rope.

The Prince and Kate stopped in front of my humble charges (about eight feet from me), greeted each, and shook hands. I believe I caught Kate’s eye, and I like to think she either admired the shape my people stood in or, more likely, loved my coat.

Bells rang. A bagpiper played, and Wills and Kate left the Quad. You could tell when they reached the street, because the gathered crowd set up a loud cheer. Many of them had been waiting for hours, soggier, colder and prouder than I.

The amazing thing is that they were like . . . well, people. They joked with students about writing bad papers, playing sports, living in residence halls, going to parties, school pride. Up close, they're as fragile as you and me (except that they were being tracked by snipers at the top of city towers). I looked at them, especially her, and wondered how two frail human beings can possibly stand the tests of normal life, let alone the challenges of being a powerless monarch during a point in history when all megaliths -- economies, tyrannies, nationalities -- are challenged and crumbling under the pressure. If they want to survive the next fifty years, is the ability to show up, say a few words, and take great pictures talent enough? For his parents, it was not.

So, that’s it. I didn’t fall over, blurt out anything, call anyone by the wrong name, organise my people in the wrong geometrical shape, speak to anyone I should not have spoken to or otherwise jeopardise an incredible moment.

I couldn’t take any pictures, but there are some cracking ones on the Daily Mail (in the shots from today, Kate’s wearing a red suit). It’s nice to feel like I was a part of something important. Tonight, tomorrow, next week, ten years from now it will be nice knowing that, once upon a time, I stood eight feet from royalty -- human, breakable and flawed in all its glory.