As the soft drizzle in London gave way to a downpour, Charles was crowned king in Westminster Abbey, and the feeling came over many of us, if not all, that some things are the more marvellous for being a bit silly and unfathomable. No, republicans did not celebrate; they took their placards and their yellow T-shirts to Trafalgar Square, where their voices could (almost) be heard against a backdrop of marching bands and pealing bells.
But the choral singers of Britain celebrated, and the trumpet players and the embroiderers, the gilders and the girdlers, the umbrella-makers and the manufacturer of Goddard’s silver polish. Which sorcerer conjured this preposterous vision for the nation? This almost-fairytale? Practically speaking, we know his name: he is the Duke of Norfolk, a bespectacled aristocrat who looks, in mufti, like he might run an upmarket car showroom in Sheringham. But facts take you only so far. The true necromancy seemed, somehow, to come from elsewhere; a place both unknown and utterly indescribable, though I will try my best.
