Sunshine and midwives, &c. Samuel and I went up to Duckworth Lane in the car for an hour and spent it amongst the frozen veg in the Co-Op. We lingered in a newsagents shop over the royal wedding editions. You have no idea how satisfied I am that Prince Andrew is now Duke of York. Hugh Montgomery-Massingberd says that the last time a son of the sovereign married without a peerage title 'appears' to have been in 1374 when Thomas of Woodstock, a son of Edward III, married Eleanor de Bohun. He later became Duke of Gloucester. I cannot dispute this because as yet the plethora of dirty nappies has prevented my researches. I could have been physically sick today over breakfast while reading the offering compiled by our talented poet laureate in honour of the York nuptials. Called 'The Honey Bee and the Thistle', it is written as a song, and Ted Hughes should be thoroughly ashamed of himself. Come back John Masefield, all is forgiven. I enclose the 'poem' here.
The Honey Bee and the Thistle
Upon this day in Westminster
That brings the Prince his Bride
Out of the Sun there swoops a song
that cannot be denied.
While every television trembles
In the organ blare
And their cardiographs' two butterflies
Are trying to touch in air.
While some weep at the foamy veil
That surges her to bliss
And some drink to the princely hand
That lifts it for the kiss
Before the country's dried is eyes
Or bells begin to ring
That cherub in a shaft of light
sweetly starts to sing:
When all the birds of Roxburghshire
Danced on the lawns, and all the
The Salmon of the Tweed cavorted
Over the Garden Wall
Gold as the Honey Bee
etc etc
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