Today marks 23 years since the death of Diana, and I still remember it like it was yesterday. Which is the problem. Two decades of tabloid speculation has not let her rest.

 

 

I remember the crisp blue morning when I heard the news about Diana. I was in the bath, and as per usual, I left the television blaring on mute in the other room. Disturbed by the scream of the jug, and halfway to the kitchen, I was struck by an image. A grainy yellow tunnel flickered by the urgency of flashing lights. The type that bracketed the frame made the facts clear, as the water pooled at my feet. She was dead.

 

 

However, as today marks twenty-three years since that morning, I feel different about the whole thing. Perhaps in a sort of backward way, she’s lucky that she hasn’t seen what she’s become. The last two decades has turned her into tabloid bait. And I’ll be honest, in the early days of the horror, I fell victim like everyone else. I wanted more information. Anything to make the senseless brutality make more sense. I speculated if the driver was drunk, if the driver was deliberately drunk, if the Paparazzi was at fault, if the plot was authored in Windsor, if the smoking gun spun around Prince Charles’ finger. All seemed plausible at the time.

But every anniversary since her hideous death, we rebirth the trauma. So it goes for JFK, Diana walks too. What makes her different, is her inability to rest. Her name is constantly in our ear through the endless stream of exclusives, or exposes, or trumpeted rumour as fact every year since. The facts don’t change, they’re just reframed. As the tributes fly today, shouting that she will never be forgotten, I’m wondering which version of her we remember. Who she was in life, or who she is in death?

 

 

 

It’s not exclusively our fault that we tend to remember the plot, as we’ve not been able to forget it. Much like Kennedy, the circumstances around her death control the narrative, whitewashing over the formative achievements of her life. And I can understand why. A great mother, a towering humanitarian, a fly in the royal ointment mysteriously struck down in her prime. It’s a great story. Next, year, she’ll be immortalised in marble, with a statue at Kensington Palace. Her sons said that they hoped the sculpture would allow visitors to “reflect on her life and her legacy”. However, I feel it will be merely for fuel for the media fire. Diana returns to the address that may have killed her, will this moment bring the estranged sons back together?

Disappointingly, the headlines write themselves; but that equine has long been flogged. Whatever happened, happened.

Perhaps now, with the proto-Diana, Meghan, breaking the cycle, perhaps on this anniversary of her passing, it might be time to finally let her rest.

 

 

 

 

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