Quite a long time ago I was christened, three months after I was born. In a church, dating back to 1437, where my brother and sister had been christened before me, and where my own children would be christened after me.
I wore our family christening gown, passed on down the generations, to my nephews and nieces and my own children. A long frilly, broderie anglaise robe, that my boys have been mystified about ever since.
It was a freezing December day. A lot of fur was worn, before we all realized that fur was a no no. My sister’s little hands were kept warm in a fur muff. (I rather nervously googled ‘fur muff’ to make sure I had remembered the name correctly. I had.) My brother wore patent shoes with large silver buckles. The men wore suits and the ladies dresses, with kid skin gloves and of course jewels.
Tea was served after the intimate service. Traditionally the top tier of my parents wedding cake would be offered but this had already been eaten up at my siblings christenings. It’s hard being a third child.
There was a distinguished collection of Godparents, which included the future King of England.
Today he will host tea, on the occasion of his grandson’s christening, also a future King. There will be a lot less fur and a lot more paparazzi. And hopefully cake.