The decree about the wedding coincided uncannily with the airing of Meg’s farewell season of Suits, in which her character, Rachel, was also preparing to get married. Art and life, imitating each other.
Decent of Suits, I thought, marrying Meg off the show, instead of pushing her down a lift shaft. There were enough people in real life trying to do that.
That spring, however, the press was quieter. Keener about breaking news of wedding details than inventing new libels.
So when the Palace encouraged us to feed more wedding details to those correspondents, known as the Royal Rota, we obeyed.
At the same time, I told the Palace that on the Big Day, the happiest day of our lives, I didn’t want to see one single royal correspondent inside that chapel, unless Murdoch himself apologized for phone hacking.
The Palace scoffed. It would be all-out war, the courtiers warned, to bar the Royal Rota from the wedding. Then let’s go to war.
I’d had it with the Royal Rota, both the individuals and the system, which was more outdated than the horse and cart. It had been devised some forty years earlier, to give British print and broadcast reporters first crack at the Royal Family, and it stank to high heaven. It discouraged fair competition, engendered cronyism, encouraged a small mob of hacks to feel entitled.
After weeks of wrangling, it was agreed: The Royal Rota wouldn’t be allowed in the chapel, but they could gather outside. A small win, which I hugely celebrated.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
After having a small panic on that note I think I’ll get some shut eye 
