Memories and mishaps of an occasional royal reporter
For a few moments last week, I was that five-year-old boy. I'm guessing he was five. He looked about that and to be vague about it would clutter the story. So we'll stick with five.
His newly-made paper crown slid down in front of his eyes as he made his way home from school with his mum. Every time he lifted it to eyebrow level, it dropped back down. His friend bore his own creation with much greater ease. The William to his Harry.
As I passed by, I imagined the whole class had just completed a DIY coronation with as much pomp as the circumstances allowed.
It reminded me of my own primary school efforts to mark notable occasions. Each St David's Day I would attempt to draw Y Ddraig Goch (though we didn't call it that in 60s and 70s Monmouthshire). It is arguably the world's greatest flag and definitely the trickiest. My dragon was more puff than roar and would have done little to ignite a nationalist rebellion.
My first royal memory was of the 1969 investiture of the Prince of Wales. I would have been the same age as the crown-wearing schoolboy (yes, I'm sticking with five).
I can't remember much except that Monmouthshire Education Committee marked the occasion by giving us all a bound anthology of pupils' poems, collectively called There's Rosemary. Or there's lovely, as my mother may have said. Years later, I discovered that one of my BBC bosses had his own poem published within. I've still got it on a bookshelf somewhere, probably nuzzling next to the works of RS Thomas.
There must have been a street party for the Queen's Silver Jubilee in 1977, though I can't remember any of that beyond the china mug I was given - a version of which I saw on sale for a fiver the other day in Hay on Wye. Reassuring confirmation that I'd held on to a worthwhile investment.
And then as we skipped past the Charles and Diana wedding (not literally), I came onto the scene as an occasional royal reporter, drafted in, initially for the Western Mail, whenever a member of The Firm was in town.
In those heady days of Diana-mania, the pressure was on rookie reporters like me to describe her latest outfit. On my own, I struggled to extend much beyond a description of primary colours and "short" or "long", with a matching hat. So a group of us would gather together with the closest we could find to a fashionista hack and agree a form of words. One colleague once added that Charles was wearing grey jacket and trousers. The young reporter was mocked at the time for unnecessary detail but it seems a little unfair on reflection.
Fergie made a brief but eventful entry to the fray before putting her foot in it with those toe-sucking paparazzi snaps. On one visit to Cardiff Castle, she arrived amid much coverage of her successful new diet. I was rather proud of my by-lined intro that her appearance had provided a "slimline tonic" to her Welsh followers.
And I see from my yellowing cutting, that she was wearing a navy gymslip-style dress, with off-white jacket and navy accessories before switching to an evening outfit of red satin dress and black jacket.
How my career might have catwalked along a different path.
Then in 1997, I spent many fraught weeks recording around Wales in preparation for a co-presentation with BBC Scotland ahead of the devolution referendum. With changing production demands, it was one of the biggest headaches of my career.
Finally, on the Saturday evening everything seemed in place ready for the following morning's programme. I said to my colleague as we headed home: "You watch there'll be a big story overnight and we'll be knocked off air."
In the early hours, my wife woke me with the news that the Princess of Wales had died in Paris.
As the shocking details emerged, there was a particularly panicky phone call taken by a BBC Wales presenter who misheard the initial alert and thought the royal death was in Powys.
For the day of her funeral, at an outside broadcast, I was given the job of producing a presenter who, let's say, would rather have been somewhere else. Still, she did muster more energy than my car. A day's broadcasting, firing up the satellite dish from the engine, left it with a flat battery and the researcher and me hunting for jump leads in order to get home.
The Duke of Edinburgh was often good for some "copy". For a while, he made a series of unfortunate remarks. In 1999, while attending an event to mark the opening of the Welsh Assembly (as it then was), he attempted a joke with a young group from the British Deaf Association who were standing close to a steel band.
Pointing to the loudspeakers the duke quipped: "If you are near there, no wonder you are deaf" and then walked off. He may not have been monarch but for a while he was certainly the gaffer.
As for the Queen, her trips to Wales, were generally business like and unfussy. As much as a queen's attendance can be called unfussy, though in '96 a student protest forced her to leave Aberystwyth somewhat earlier than planned.
Most poignantly, there were her return visits to Aberfan on which I reported. These were royal occasions, for a hundred and forty-four reasons, that were played out to an altogether different beat.
Among my final duties on Auntie's payroll were commentating in Cardiff, London and Anglesey on the Queen's death and King's accession. One verbal misstep had me inadvertently merging regiments and referring to the "Royal Welsh Guards" - a firm tap on my shoulder from a military observer reminded me there was no such thing. It was the broadcast equivalent of dropping my rifle.
Thankfully, my words were in better order for that defining moment last autumn. Whatever your take on the monarchy, to be outside Westminster Abbey for Queen Elizabeth's funeral, watching one of the biggest ever gatherings of world leaders, was to witness a moment of history.
I won't be at the coronation, nor this time reporting on any related events. How they'll miss my description and interpretation of the dress code.
Instead, I suppose I could pass the time making myself a crown.
Or draw a signed picture of a dragon.
By Mark, aged five-ish.
Once again Mark, lovely writing. And yet again, you royally remind me of my own mishaps. I remember phoning in copy about a Diana visit, only to be grilled by the newsdesk because I had missed the key information. What was she wearing? "Err... a dress?" I floundered. "Or trousers?"