August 31, 1997, was a typically warm day in Los Angeles. I remember arriving home in the late afternoon, my ears still ringing from the high decibel British Invasion music that shuddered by Ford Explorer. I opened the door and heard my wife crying. Having been brought up on the streets of Limerick, Ireland, she’s made of stronger stuff. But not this afternoon, and not today. I asked her what was wrong, and joined her on the sofa where her attention was riveted to the national news.
“They killed her.”
I shifted my attention to the television and gasped. Princess Diana, whose face greeted me every morning on china plates and cups in my wife’s china cabinet, was dead.