The Queen of Hearts is dead. And with her death the self-invented name, line and possible dynasty has died also. She is simply irreplaceable. "Irreplaceable" and "unbelievable" were two of the words that yesterday dominated the stunned vocabulary of media coverage of the woman who did not easily fit into the rigid titles and roles that oil the frigid engine of British royalty and aristocracy. Since her divorce she was supposed formally to be called Diana, Princess of Wales, but to the end, and after, most of the "subjects" or "commoners" still referred to her with affection as Lady Di.
Even the rakes of talking heads, from top to bottom of the social scale, lapsed into the comfortable lingo yesterday as they strove to come to terms with the sudden death of the most beloved of their "uppers". In death, as in life, she unified a much-divided nation and a family that had treated their corgis with more ardent affection and attention than they ever showed to her. While the over-weight and ugly four-leggers were treated with TLC, Diana was treated like something nasty that the ugly, bulky tykes had dragged in from the royal gutters. Yesterday it was not just the likes of David Mellor, the former populist Tory minister who casually used words like "the Queen of Hearts", or Jeffrey Archer, who name-dropped about a recent lunch he and his wife had with Diana, it was also the most stiff upper-lipped lot who laced their comments with sympathy and warmth for the loss that Britain, her family, and the world were facing. Almost everybody spoke of the two young princes with worry and compassion for their future. Some concentrated more on Wills, as Prince William has become known, since he will, presumably, become king some day. But there was a feeling of almost family anxiety about both children. These male panellists who normally are only on television to talk in male-speak about maleist issues, were suddenly speaking my language; using words any woman could relate to and understand.
Many of the least likely men revealed themselves as secret Hello! readers. They were very up to date on all the insider knowledge that only readers of my favourite must have magazine possess. The men probably say they're getting it for the wife and cover it carefully with the Times, but I am not fooled.
On Saturday night I was doing things like darning old tights, listening to the drip of the defrosting fridge and other life-enhancing, womanist chores while watching dismal films about the lives of dismal people. It was coming up to 3 a.m and still loath to go to bed I switched to Sky. Suddenly, my life was turned on its head. The sombre newscaster was repeating over and over again the few details they then had to hand.
The princess was seriously injured, Dodi al-Fayed was dead, the driver of their car was dead, the bodyguard was seriously injured. And all this was in the centre of Paris where the couple had dined at the Ritz. Sky did not even know which hospital the princess had been taken to.
Until around 4 a.m. though, there was still some hope. Princess Diana was still alive. She had been visited by the British ambassador and French Minister for the Interior. It was presumed by the newscasters that where there was life, there was hope. Some spoke of an observer at the scene who had seen her on her feet after the horrific crash.
As I listened, the sexist prejudice that runs in my veins, was overtaken by a unisex empathy with parents everywhere and accompanied by a rush of pain for Prince Charles who, like many of his generation, does not easily talk the language of his young sons. Until now, in my reckoning, he did his woman and children so much wrong that an eternity of hell-fire and brimstone would not be enough punishment. Instead, I have now written him a short, personal letter, in some attempt to purge my system of the lack of understanding that is (just) sometimes a convenient way for abusing feminism rather than thinking issues through.
I turned the central heating back on and sat on in frozen immobility, soaking up the words and images. But it was not until after 4 a.m., when Sir Michael Jay, the British ambassador to France, announced the death of Diana that I finally broke down and cried uncontrollably as if it was my own mother or child who had died. Hours later I continue to burst into tears and make for the women's room or sniffle noisily into the nearest tissue.
Oh, my God, my God, my God, was all I could moan silently. My stomach knotted. I wanted to talk to somebody, anybody, but since most people I could think of ringing were in bed or at U2 and its aftermath, I sat in frozen horror as more information became available and more people were beginning to fill the television studios. Shots from outside showed that from about 7 a.m. people were beginning to arrive at Kensington or Buckingham palaces, many leaving poignant notes on small bouquets of flowers, saying a short prayer and than fading silently away.
Some photographers came in for abuse in London while some people lambasted the press as a whole for ruining Diana's marriage. The role of the press, of newspaper editors, owners and others who define policy will be much discussed in coming weeks, if the flavour of yesterday's chat is anything to go to.
In the studios the suits spoke on endlessly and easily of Princess Diana's many gifts, of her intelligence and her warmth. He did not confirm it but the Prime Minister, Mr Tony Blair, did not refute either that he was very impressed by her and was considering a post where her talents could be best used. As at the best wakes, it seemed as if people just turned up and hung around not wanting to leave but to remain with people who felt as they did.
But, as you listened and watched, you wondered why none of this had been said while this "shining light", this "bright star", this warm, beautiful and wonderful woman and mother was alive? Why do we have to wait for the obituaries to be written?