My alarm clock shatters the early morning quiet at 2:15 a.m., heralding the start of the royal wedding in London.

I slip out of bed and quietly make my way down the stairs to the kitchen. Switching on the lights I startle the sleeping cats, who immediately demand food. Next, for me: strong black coffee and a homemade drunken scone filled with plump, brandy soaked currants. Now the TV is on and my laptop is humming. Hello, world! I’m ready if you are.

Queen Elizabeth arrives looking spiffy in an elegant yellow suit with clean, modern lines. The matching hat is good. A commentator notes that she’s owned over 5,000 in her life. I look stupid in hats and avoid them at all cost.

The camera scans the abbey showing everyone dressed to the nines. Lots of hats. I wonder what they’d do if someone from the San Francisco stage show, Beach Blanket Babylon showed up in one of their outrageous iconic hats. Probably chaos, but then I would love wearing one of those—stupid or not.

I pour some more coffee, butter the scone and spoon on a bit of blackberry jam with extended pinky-finger. Very British, you know.

Kate—the bride arrives looking radiant, poised and beautiful. A commoner at this moment, but a born queen. Let’s hope the royal family knows what they have here and treats her well.

The tender moments—the humanity of the wedding shines as Kate’s father, Michael Middleton, joins her. He’s a very successful man from humble beginnings giving his beloved baby girl to the man she truly loves, and to England as their future queen.

Father asks her, “Are you ready?” and she answers, “Yes”. Together they start her historic walk down the aisle to music and camera shots that remind me of the wedding scene from the film, Sound of Music.

The scene is glorious. Westminster Abbey always takes my breath away whether on TV or on site. This is my favorite area with its soaring ceiling, dark aged wood, blue walls and black and white-checked floors. It always looks much larger on television than in actuality. Today everything is set off with crimson red. Exquisite.

With the global family watching and smiling, Prince Harry turns for a quick peek at the bride. (William could not look until she arrived at the alter.) Mischievously, Harry leans in and says something like, “She looks gorgeous. You should see her.” Wicked fellow.

As the ceremony begins, a friend calls via Skype from New Delhi, India. It’s 3:30 in the afternoon there and all the women of the family are sitting around the TV. Other friends come online and others never show. I figure the California group turned off their alarms, rolled over and went back to sleep.

With the “I do’s” over and everything signed and official, William and Catherine—now a royal— walk down the aisle as husband and wife. They stop to visit with the queen and she looks pleased. Maybe she’s relieved that the royal future is looking up, or maybe—like the rest of us—she simply loves a good romance.

As they head out to the fairytale horse-drawn carriage, I head to the kitchen for a second scone and more coffee. I know, I know—two’s too many, but they are so good I can’t resist.

Soon the posh crowd disperses. I chuckle at the thought of them all in constricting ensembles, hats and high heels. I on the other-hand sit comfortably wrapped in a blanket-sized red pashimina shawl with my bare feet propped on the coffee table. No swollen feet or sore tootsies in my immediate future.

Back in London, the people fill the streets in celebration. Wildly waving thousands of red, white and blue Union Jacks, they cheer, laugh, cry and seal a lifetime memory as William and Catherine’s carriage passes by on its way to Buckingham Palace. To some it might look like just another street party, but I like to believe it’s something more. I hope the world still retains some faith in fairytales.

Slept through the wedding? Don’t fret—you’re still in store for a royally good treat. Here’s the recipe for the drunken scones with currants soaked in brandy. They’re light and positively out-of-this-world good. Here, let me warm one up for you. Really. Take it or I’ll eat it—and three are no good for my hips.