So many miles from Normal: June 2018

Windsor. A quaint historic town situated south of the River Thames adjacent to its twin town of Eton, 34 kms west of Charring Cross in London, 11 kms south east of Maidenhead and 35 km east of Reading. That’s where it is. But Windsor is far more than just your average market town on a map. Windsor is home to the oldest and largest inhabited castle in the world. Built by William the Conqueror in the 11th Century, Windsor Castle has housed British kings and queens for just shy of a millennium. That’s a kak long time. 1.3 million visitors travel to Windsor Castle every year. That’s a kak load of people. Windsor may be home to one of the most iconic castles and home to the royal family. But it’s also home to a little family of Cooks. It's home to me.

Overseas visitors arrive by the bus load, day-trippers catch the train in from Londontown and sightseers come from all corners of the kingdom. Usually I use my local smarts to steer well clear of the swathes of selfie-stick-wielding castle-crazed happy-snappers. Except for this one time. On Saturday the 19th of May, I was amongst the human horde that lined the streets of Windsor, who stood on her tippy toes and strained for the slightest glimpse, my phone precariously poised for a shot. I was there in the thick of it. Caught up in the euphoria. The excitement. When Harry wed Meg.

I’ve never been a royalist. One who buys Hello magazine, collects the ~~tat~~ memorabilia or worries about her hat or hemline on race day. To me victoria was a sponge, earl a tea, duke a university and prince and princesses existed only in fairy tales. So when it was announced that the royal wedding of the year would take place at St. George's Chapel in Windsor, I thought to myself "sweet baby cheesus, can't they all just keep calm and carry on." And on they carried all right - this little town got the gees in a big way. Out came the paint, the polish and the patriotic paraphenalia. The local schools designed crowns, made the bunting that lined The Long Walk and even coordinated a Guinness World record attempt for the longest concertina greetings card. There was an infectious sense of community spirit. And I caught it. The royal fever. Even when it got real after the media flooded the town centre, the traffic took a turn for hell-town and the homeless were controversially "re-housed" from the high street. And even when it got weird after the royal super-fans started camping in their chairs outside the castle three nights before the ceremony. I couldn’t help but be swept up by the stately spectacle of it all.

And so the big day dawned and we made our way to our friend’s house right on the royal parade. We drank gin in the morning, waved Union Jack flags and watched as thousands packed The Long Walk. We clocked the snipers on the roof, made small talk with the security police and caught snippets of the ceremony on the telly. And we waited. And when it was time, we ventured outside to watch with the world. As the procession made its way from Windsor Castle down the Kings Road we heard the crowds cheer as it drew closer. First we saw the horses. And then the carriage. And for a fleeting moment as it passed, we saw the couple. And they smiled. Not at us - obvs. Our friend next to us was holding up a sign she’d made that read: “I married a ginge too” and when Prince Harry spotted it, he gestured to Meghan to look and they both smiled. And we got that shot. Right place. Right time. Right sign.

Wherever we venture next, Windsor will always be a special place for our family. It’s where we first chose to make our home in England. It’s where my youngest son was born and it’s the only home my daughter knows. And I will always remember that remarkable May day. The day I stood with one hundred thousand people on the Kings Road and cheered for the 16th royal couple to wed at Windsor Castle. The day that we were there to join in a celebration like no other. The day that a family of Saffas were a very small part of British history. In Windsor. Our home town.