The Diana Exhibition

So where were you when you heard Princess Diana was dead. And did you sign one of the condolence books because if you did, you might be part of this travelling exhibition.

I was sitting on the floor of our sitting room in Reading, drying my hair. I remember switching the hairdryer off and just staring at the TV screen, my hand covering my mouth. The next day we were in London, a London I'd never seen before; people milling aimlessly outside Buckingham Palace until late in the evening, a few flowers beginning to mount up at the palace gates.

Ten years on, she still seems to divide opinion. As someone who grew up with the idea of Diana as a fairytale princess, I remain endlessly bewitched by her, not just for her beauty, but because she shaped the history of our country. True, there's enough been said about her now; enough books written (and some that ought not to have been published), but whether you like it or not, she's an icon of our age, one who'll be written about for the rest of history, and we were there to witness it.

Admitting to being even interested in Diana, however, often attracts derisory comments, as though anyone who's remotely interested in discussing her is suffering from Diana Hysteria, some sort of hangover from the week following her death. I suppose there are people like that, I just don't count myself amongst them, so I don't mind admitting I was thrilled when I heard her wedding dress was in Sydney. The dress.

This morning I headed down to Darling Harbour to meet Steve for brekkie and afterwards we walked over the the Powerhouse Musuem to have a squizz at the exhibition. And then we rounded the corner and found this enormous queue stretching out of the door; I've never seen a queue here before. Ten years on, she's still packing them in.

The exhibition is on loan from Althorp House, you know, where they stuck her out on that island in the lake. Call me cynical, but I've always thought how this turned out to be a nice moneyspinner for the estate, in the same way it's highly convenient that she was born on July 1st and died on August 31st because they can open Althorp for that nice discreet period and hey presto - it's all very symbolic.

(And speaking of cynical, is it pure coincidence that they've brought this exhibition to Sydney during the inquest into her death?).

Anyway, the exhibition was small but interesting, and in some parts quite upsetting, like watching the Spencer family's home movies of when she was a little girl, not much older than Ella, and reading the letters she sent to her father from boarding school when she was seven or eight, imploring him "will you write back?".

There were some of her teddies and trinkets, including little porcelain figures with bits broken off; her school uniform, personal photo albums, and a load of photos her father had taken around London in the run up to her wedding. All remarkably normal really, though when you read in her diary "Princess Margaret came to dinner" and "Must write to the Queen", you realise it was no ordinary upbringing at all.

And then there was the dress and the shoes and the veil with the tiny diamantes scattered through it and when I saw that I realised that was the reason I wanted diamantes scattered through my veil when we got married, I'd seen it somewhere before, just couldn't think where.

The final room was full of mannequins wearing her clothes, mainly evening gowns. She had an amazing figure you know, and you don't realise how amazing until you stand next to her clothes, though I found this last room slightly disturbing because the mannequins were stood on platforms, which meant you stood at eye level with her waist and could almost imagine her standing there in front of you.

Afterwards we browsed the museum shop, which had a display of Diana books and the sorts of fragrant products you might find at a national trust property, you know, scented drawer liners, candles, bars of soap in the shape of West Highland Terriers, though how the latter relates to Diana I'll never know.

"She was a bit naughty though" said Steve as I was leafing through a glossy Mario Testino book.

"What do you mean?"

"Well I don't think Harry belongs to Prince Charles, do you? I'm with the conspiracy theorists"

I've thought about this before but never come to a conclusion. I looked down at the Testino portrait of Diana draping herself suggestively across a chaise longue.

"No, probably not" I said. "But was she murdered? That's the question"

He thought for a minute. "Yeah, I reckon"

He's right, he's with the conspiracists. Does he believe in the Illuminati as well? I'll have to ask when when we next catch up.