Frankly my heart said ‘Game over’ as soon as the happy clappy American preacher overstayed his welcome at Harry and Meaghan’s wedding. She might be forgiven for not having mastered all the rules so early on but Harry knows better.  Royal occasions run like clockwork and you don’t try to upstage the Archbishop of Canterbury by your crowd pleasing antics (The Duke of Edinburgh and the Princess Royal just two who were rocking with laughter) and certainly not in front of his (earthly) boss, aka Her Majesty the Queen, head of the Church of England.

There had already been murmurings about the tiara tantrum on an Elton John scale, Meaghan not having grasped that you don’t parade about in diamonds given/taken from somewhere that is now beyond the pale. ‘What Meghan wants, Meghan gets’ said Harry, hammering in the final nail.  Novice, novice mistake as the Queen doubtless pointed out when she called him in to ‘discuss’ it.

I have heard two versions of the fraternal fracture.  Some say the wives don’t get on but I think Kate is way too savvy to make that obvious and the other story going the rounds is that Harry doesn’t approve of his brother’s friendship with a certain Turnip Toff, given their parents unhappy marital history.  Who knows?

Toss into the mix the cost of their home renovations and talk of a home birth away from the nosy British public (Who fund these things) and it is game over.  There’s a reason that the Queen allegedly has cereal served in a Tupperware box and allows a single electric bar fire be spotted in photographs.  Learn from someone whose been doing the job since 1952 and is still loved.  In Britain we don’t hold with the notion that is you’ve got it, flaunt it.  That way lies the French Revolution.

So the men in grey suits have come up with an unarguable suggestion.  Ship ‘em off to Africa.  They are always banging on about how much they love it, although if memory serves Harry’s initial interest was sparked by an earlier girlfriend rather than by humanitarian aims.  We’ve all been on holiday and thought how wonderful it would be to live there full time  but let’s see how long it is before the magic wears off.  You don’t sign up to be a princess to get stuck in the middle of nowhere, with nowhere to go and very few opportunities for dressing up.  I certainly wouldn’t!

Doubters gave the marriage a life span of five years at the outset.  I’d wager that the odds – and the length – have shortened quite a lot.