I felt I wanted to watch the Coronation of Charles III on the telly. I was interested in the music and the spectacle. I’m not sure where I stand on the monarchy. I’m kind of for it, though I shrink in horror when I’m supposed to call someone Lady Suchabody or Lord Suchaface instead of Mrs and Mr like the rest of us. If ever they gave me a knighthood or an OBE I’d probably turn it down. I don’t mind Charles though. He was caught between generations and has done his best to try and find a way. I find I resent rich kids with VIP tickets to Glastonbury more than I resent royalists queueing 12 hours to glimpse the royal carriage for two seconds. What an ordeal for Charles, balancing a crown, an orb and a sceptre, as he tries to remember the right response from 800 years ago. It felt a bit like that for me conducting A level orals last week, juggling with timing, the regulations and the responses. Still, there’s some consolation. At least, they’re not making me listen to Take That tonight. I just switched on the telly and there was poor Charlie waving a little union flag and trying to keep interested. He’ll sleep well tonight, poor lamb.

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