25 Years Ago Diana, Princess of Wales Killed in Car Crash
In the early hours of August 31st 1997, Diana Princess of Wales tragically passed away in Paris, as a result of injuries sustained in a fatal car crash. Of the four occupants in the car that night, only one was wearing a seat belt, Diana’s bodyguard the sole survivor. The news of Diana’s death had a somewhat seismic effect on the British public’s psyche. I can remember exactly where I was when the news broke, a phenomena known as a “flashbulb moment”. A peculiar combination of personal circumstances at that time heightened my awareness even more.
1997 was a bit of a landmark year for me, because in early January I’d undergone emergency surgery, to deal with the ravages of eight years undiagnosed Crohn’s Disease. Until that point, I’d only been born in hospital, so my body seemed to decide to give me a lifetime’s worth of ill health in three weeks! So although the surgery was successful, I developed shingles, pleurisy and pneumonia and flat-lined as well with congestive heart failure. So it’s a wonder I made the summer of 1997 at all to be honest. Before all this medical mayhem ensued, I’d booked myself into a volunteer Cathedral Camp at Westminster Abbey, running from 27th August to 3rd September. Having been on a camp at the Abbey the year before, I was looking forward to another one. However, as the months went by, and my physical frailty wasn’t particularly improving, I had to concede that I wasn’t strong enough to carry out the demanding tasks volunteers could be given. So with great reluctance I gave up my place.
My husband had booked us Prom tickets for August 30th as I knew volunteers had the Saturday night off. The programs highlight was “Faure’s Requiem” a particular favourite of mine. The hotel and tickets were booked well in advance, so although I didn’t feel able to attend the Cathedral Camp, there was no way I was missing out on the Royal Albert Hall and Faure. So Rob and I travelled down to London on Saturday August 30th 1997, for an overnight stay in a Kensington High Street hotel. It was a stone’s throw away from Kensington Palace, and only a short walk to the Albert Hall. The Prom that evening was wonderful, and I went to bed that night very happy, with the Requiem music swirling round my head lulling me to sleep.
Next morning, my day began as always (in a hotel) propped up in bed with a cup of tea in hand, and a switch on of the TV for some news. I’d discovered early on that hotel TV’s could have access to a wider/ more interesting variety of channels, as they tried to keep their international guests happy. And I delighted in finding old favourite TV shows dubbed into another language, or watching international news programs. The BBC news came on and the sombre mood was instantly obvious, and I thought “oh dear something bad has happened”. I quickly realised the Royal Family were involved in some way, and immediately thought the Queen Mother had died. I flicked onto BBC2, then ITV and again the same solemnity of news reporting, though I still had no idea what was going on, other than someone had died. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the death wasn’t expected and wondered if the Queen had passed away instead! Being a Royal fan, I was going through every name (of a certain vintage) I could think of for about five minutes, until I switched to Channel 4. It was then I heard the words, “Diana Princess of Wales killed in a car crash in Paris”. That was not the answer I expected to hear, her name hadn’t even entered my head, with her being a relatively young vibrant woman. Along with a sense of shock, I was also hit by an overwhelming sense of my own mortality, considering how 1997 had started for me.
We were one of the first people to lay some flowers, in respect for Diana and her passing at Kensington Palace that morning. Literally we were on the scene, as crowds gathered and TV crews from around the world descended on this corner of London. It was rather surreal witnessing firsthand both the very palpable public grief on show, and also the media circus frenzy, which seemed to grow and mutate by the minute. We were glad to be leaving London that day, because even in those first few hours the vibe of the city had changed, and not for the better either. Much later, I realised it was the vibe of hysteria I’d found so unsettling.
So in the last few hours of Diana’s life, I was in Kensington London for a Prom’s performance of Faure’s Requiem, staying in a hotel not far away from her Kensington Palace apartment. But for my own ill health in 1997, I’d also have been in London participating in a volunteer camp at Westminster Abbey, where Diana’s funeral took place a week after her death. I’ve often wondered if the volunteers were told to go home early, or if they helped prepare the Abbey for the funeral alongside the professionals? Who knows, but I do feel a strange circumstantial connection to Diana and the day she died.
Earlier this month (August 2022) I enjoyed a visit Kensington Palace, taking a good look round the state apartments, and seeing an excellent photo exhibition ”Life Through A Royal Lens”. One particular picture of Diana on display had never been published, something I instinctively knew. As I looked at it, I remembered I must visit the sunken memorial garden (opened 2021) in the Palace grounds before leaving. The weather was glorious, and I sought shelter from the sun under the shaded canopy that surrounded the area. Sitting in quiet contemplation behind Diana’s statue, admiring the peace and beauty of the area, I was shocked to realise the 25th anniversary of her passing was coming up. It seemed right that I’d visited the Palace and sought out her memorial garden, to pay homage to her memory. I offered up a silent prayer and with a lump in my throat bid Diana farewell.
angiesallsorts 