Two extremely exciting things happened this week. First, I discovered the whereabouts of a pair of hiking socks that went missing seven years ago (they were, mysteriously, in the glove box of Mrs Canavan’s Nissan Micra behind a Hollands Meat Pie wrapper; but no matter, it’s good to have them back).
Secondly, there is to be a Royal wedding.
Now you might not be aware of this as other than the 96 hours of solid TV coverage since the announcement 96 hours ago, there hasn’t been much mention of it.
ITV exclusively told us: “Bridal-wear designers around the world will be hoping to get the call for the wedding. Ms Markle will no doubt already have an idea of what she wants.”
Wow, really? I assumed she’d leave her dress choice till the day before then nip to Debenhams and pick up whatever’s on offer.
I can’t say I’m hugely excited about the impending nuptials – unless I get an invite of course, which might happen; I’ve not mentioned it previously for fear of being labelled big-headed but Prince Harry is a keen fan of this column and often sends fan mail.
I have to say, I quite like him. He seems a bit different to the other Royals, almost normal.
And as the BBC documentary on the night of the wedding announcement pointed out, “he has done an awful lot of charity work for a man of his age”.
Which is true, but then again he doesn’t have to work 8 till 6 at Morrisons so he’s got a tad more time on his hands than most.
I do wish, though, that the Royals were a bit more exciting.
In the past, you see, there have been some cracking monarchs, my favourite being Joanna, Queen of Spain in the early 1500s.
We learned about her in A-level history and she was insane.
She was deeply in love with her husband, but unfortunately he didn’t feel quite the same way and was well known for eyeing up any other vaguely attractive female around the palace.
So jealous was Joanna that she insisted only old and ugly women were to be employed. Which is fair enough, for a similar thing happened in our household when I had a brief but torrid affair with the Swedish au pair Mrs Canavan and I hired after the birth of our daughter; Mrs Canavan sacked the Swede and replaced her with a 75-year-old nanny from Doncaster with awful varicose veins and surgical stockings.
When Joanna’s husband died, despite his infidelities she was so devastated that she refused to allow his body to be buried.
Instead she kept his corpse propped up in her room and – get this – took it with her on foreign trips, which must have been awfully embarrassing when meeting other dignitaries.
Unsurprisingly her nickname was Joanna the Mad – which I think, on reflection, is kind – and she lived out her days having very one-sided conversations with her spouse.
Though Joanna tops my list of nutty Royals, I do have another favourite – the French monarch Charles VI, whose 42-year reign began in the late 1300s.
Things went a bit pear-shaped when he began to ask who the King was.
People had to remind him it was him, not a great starting point for a bloke in charge of the country.
As his sanity decreased, he refused to bathe or change his clothes for months on end and – for reasons no one could ever fathom – spent hours running at full pelt through the halls of his palace. Eventually, for his own safety, and possibly because the carpet was getting worn out, they had to board the doors up.
Worse was to follow when Charles became convinced he was made of glass.
So fearful was he of breaking into pieces that he began wearing padded clothing and ordered that no one should touch him for fear he’d shatter, though, when feeling a bit stiff, he did allow people to squirt WD40 on him.
All of the above makes Harry look a little dull.
If he could just do something interesting, like, say, romp naked with a bevy of topless girls at an LA pool party…
Good luck to the couple – they’ll need it.
Steamed up over clothes inequality
I noticed the other night Mrs Canavan wearing a T-shirt that looked familiar.
‘Darling, “ I said, ‘that looks like the shirt I’ve spent the last seven weeks looking for, including the 45 minutes I spent rooting through the wash basket on Saturday morning.”
I bent down to take a closer look and – you’re ahead of me here – it was the very same; my favourite light blue T-shirt that has a thermal lining and is very nice this time of year for warming an ageing body like mine.
Mrs Canavan has a habit of doing this, and it is, I believe I’m correct in stating, a woman thing.
A man, for instance, would never borrow, say, his wife’s knickers.
Well, not unless he had a very unusual fetish and his better half was incredibly understanding.
But a woman has no hesitation in wearing just about any of her husband’s apparel.
Mrs Canavan has, in the last few months alone, worn my jumpers, T-shirts, socks, jeans and – on one occasion when she’d forgot to put a wash on – my boxer shorts.
I have never, ever borrowed any clothing of hers, except once a couple of years ago when I couldn’t find my bra and wore hers instead.
I don’t wish to dwell too much on this, I just wonder why women can’t buy and wear their own clothes.
Right rant over. As you were.