The evening before the Royal Wedding…
Despite my predictable misgivings about William and Catherine’s do at Westmintser Abbey (I’m a left-leaning journalist from Merseyside who lives in north London), there was something irristable about the size of the event that drew me to it.
So, the night before, and armed with my “entry-level SLR”, I walked from work to St James’s Park and Westminster Abbey, looking for an opportunity to take the sort of sneering class-tourist photographs that Martin Parr has made a career out of.
Unsurpisingly, there were lots of red-faced ladies about – many, it has to be said, in pastel coloured fleeces, but there were also MILF-y women from America, stoic teenagers bedding down for the night and more foreign correspondents than at John Simpson’s retirement bash. This is what I saw.
Despite my predictable misgivings about William and Catherine’s do at Westmintser Abbey (I’m a left-leaning journalist from Merseyside who lives in north London), there was something irristable about the size of the event that drew me to it.
So, the night before, and armed with my “entry-level SLR”, I walked from work to St James’s Park and Westminster Abbey, looking for an opportunity to take the sort of sneering class-tourist photographs that Martin Parr has made a career out of.
Unsurpisingly, there were lots of red-faced ladies about – many, it has to be said, in pastel coloured fleeces, but there were also MILF-y women from America, stoic teenagers bedding down for the night and more foreign correspondents than at John Simpson’s retirement bash. This is what I saw.
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