When Charles married Di I was a room service waiter at Claridge’s hotel which was where the oveseas parties of dignitaries stayed. We mainly had King Hussein of Jordan and his extensive entourage on our floor. On the day itself Claridge’s ballroom was the venue for the reception. Anyone on the entire staff was allowed to carry trays of canapés around so as to be allowed to see what was what; there were more waiters than guests.
In the run up to the big day I mainly spent my time at odds with my immediate senior on the 5th floor, a Spaniard called Antonio Fernandez who liked to do card tricks. The row was regarding a matter to do with the transfer of black cherry jam from jam jars into the ceramic vessels into which it had to be decanted in order to be served with toast, rolls, croissants and brioches on the breakfast tables. I can’t remember the exact details of the dispute, but I can remember that you could cut the atmosphere with the ace of spades. We made life rather miserable for our third colleague, one Paul Edwards-Moss, a roly-poly boy who was something of a royalist and who expected us to be joyous. In retrospect I feel rather regretful that we were mean to him in this way, but I suppose there will always be casualties when war breaks out over preserves.