We're all looking forward to it, apparently. We're all celebrating, they say. We all love the pomp and circumstance of a Royal occasion, says the BBC, ITV and every other TV and media outlet as they push out the posh.
Well, no. Not all of us does care about the Royal Wedding. Or rather, what we do care about is that our taxes are being used to perpetuate class divide and privilege, that our hard earned tax money that we work 9-5 for, 5 days a week, is being used for something we don't approve of, or want.
I'm going to do my best to ignore the Royal wedding media machine as much as I possibly can. It'll be difficult, but I'll try. A river walk to a brewery is on the cards for Friday. The TV remote control will be much in use for thereafter.
I've only been camping once in my life when I spent three nights under canvas at Guilfest some years ago. Helped by lashings of alcohol and dodgy burgers, I had a great time. The toilet block wasn't as bad as I'd feared and the campers were more friendly than I'd dared to hope.
So I'm going to do it again.
Not Guilfest this time, but three nights in a tent over the May Bank Holiday with (at the last count but it keeps growing) eight family members and two friends.
It could be fun or it could be bloody awful. I'm hoping for fun.
I haven't done as much exercise since I was in the school netball team and I was only picked because I was tall and they thought I'd make a good net defence. They thought wrong.
I have no coordination and I can't jump. I can, however, run.
It's not fast, it's not strong, and it's more like a shuffle along the sand as I've just started, twice a week, doing a gentle jog along the beach that's now at the bottom of my new street. I know it'll make me feel better, fitter, firmer, healthier - I'm just not quite sure when.