When the Prince and Princess of Wales got married 30 years ago, my sister kept a ‘Diana scrapbook’. As a little girl who believed in fairytales, she was captivated by the romance and, like the rest of the country, was intrigued by Lady Di and her outfits.

The Diana scrapbook was full of cuttings from newspapers and magazines. It fizzled out eventually, probably when the kids from Fame took over as my sister’s next obsession, but the media frenzy over this year’s royal wedding has prompted her to reminisce rather wistfully about her home-made Diana chronicle.

I didn’t go so far as to compile a scrapbook, but I do remember getting caught up in the excitement of the royal nuptials. You couldn’t switch on the telly or open Jackie magazine without someone having a ‘Diana makeover’, complete with flicked hair, lace collars and floaty skirts. It would be some time before her transformation from Sloane Ranger to global style icon.

We’ve always been a nation of forlock-tuggers when it comes to the Royals and, with the hype over Prince William and his bride-to-be already reaching fever pitch, we appear to be just as obsessed today as we were when his parents wed 30 years ago.

Maybe it was more exciting back then, or maybe I was just young and giddy, but this year’s royal wedding seems dull in comparison. I just can’t get excited about the union of two over-privileged toffs who will never know what it feels like to get up for work at 6.30am on a grey Monday when rain is battering on the windows and rush-hour traffic is clogging up the roads.

I’m sick of seeing them with their aristo chums at society weddings, exclusive nightclubs and ski resorts. It’s hard to feel happy for the blue-blooded set when your fuel bills have trebled in less than a year and you’re struggling to reach payday without resorting to selling a kidney.

When Charles and Diana got married, I was cosseted by the security of childhood, blissfully unaware of the realities of adult life. I was seduced by the glamour of Dynasty, and dreamed of one day swanning around a penthouse apartment like Krystle Carrington in silk pyjamas and fluffy mules.

Alas, I live in a largely unheated flat and can’t open a bill without a knot of panic rising in my stomach.

I wish Wills and Kate all the best, but, come their big day, I won’t be sporting a Union Jack top hat and weeping tears of joy. I might spend the day swanning around in fluffy mules instead. A girl can still dream…