I DON’T know exactly what I was doing on July 29, 1981, but I certainly wasn’t watching the “fairytale” wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Di.

Some farm work needed doing, and I was happy to escape the televised pageantry.

I did go to a wedding-related “do” in the evening, but that was really just an excuse for a barbecue, and the most memorable thing about that was my then girlfriend got food poisoning.

I had to laugh when, among all the other enterprising folk to jump on the latest royal wedding bandwagon, someone came up with a commemorative sick bag for those completely fed up with the forthcoming nuptials; also useful if anyone holds a dodgy barbecue this time around.

Being a journalist attending royal visits helped to reduce any mystique surrounding “the firm”. Not that one could do any more than observe; the Tower of London awaited any reporter who got too close to a royal during a walkabout. Even so, I formed my judgements – “well-meaning but self-indulgent”, “too haughty for words” and “remarkably charismatic but seriously self-centred” were a few conclusions I came to; you can probably guess the individuals.

The closest I got to a royal was when the Duke of York came to open the revamped St Leonard’s Hospice some years back; he broke all protocol by clapping me on the shoulder and telling all and sundry I couldn’t read my own shorthand. Everyone roared with laughter; I look annoyed in the pictures taken at the time, but actually I was more worried I might be blamed for the unseemly jollity.

I must admit his Yorkness was on good, entertaining form, though he did have, I thought, a touch of the bully about him, which would stand him in good stead if he retrained as a stand-up comedian.

So, on the basis of all this cynicism, will I be buying one of the aforementioned sick bags? Well, actually, no; I find it very hard to wish anything but success and happiness to the pair preparing to tie the knot a week on Friday.

I mean that on two levels, the personal and, for want of a better word, political.

Personally, it’s hard to imagine wishing ill on almost any young couple about to get hitched, and while this particular bride and groom-to-be are in a slightly different situation to most, at least they’ve been together a while and appear to be in a genuine relationship, unlike some previous royal alliances one could mention.

Which leads to some wider issues. It’s painfully obvious William is the royal family’s great hope, to the extent he’s often spoken of as heir to the throne as though his father didn’t exist. Not so very long ago he would have been pressured to drop Kate and find a more “suitable gel”; the fact she’s due at the abbey may perhaps suggest the royals have learned from past errors.

Some object to the description of Kate as a “commoner”, pointing out the Middletons are worth a few bob. True, but Britain’s ruling classes have always survived by absorbing people who are “on the up”, so this may again be a lesson learned for the royals. And if Ms Middleton occasionally looks a bit like the Kate who got all the cream, maybe her apparent aspiration to be a princess is no more worthy of ridicule than all the other dreams of success so cherished in our media culture.

Finally, though for some the royals seem to personify much that’s wrong with this country, I don’t believe the misuses of privilege and the distinctly uneven distribution of wealth and opportunity that blight Britain would disappear if the monarchy collapsed; if anything, they might become less palatable.

So all the best to Kate and William, and if you’re watching the wedding I hope you enjoy it; please forgive me if I don’t join you.