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Peter Rhodes remembers reporting on the funeral.

A speeding Mercedes hurtled into a concrete pillar in a Paris underpass.

The world gasped in disbelief. Britain prepared to bury a saint.

I was detailed to cover the princess’s funeral, not from Westminster Abbey but among the crowds lining the route. Fate and some dodgy seafood gave me a rare perspective on the events of the day, 25 years ago.

I was staying at a hotel in Westminster. On the day before the funeral we reporters walked among the crowds as they settled in for the night. In situations like this there is only one way to find the people you want to interview. You have to ask.

In the streets of Westminster we began our sing-song appeal: “Anyone here from the West Midlands? Anyone read the Express & Star or Shropshire Star?” Within a few minutes we had a dozen folk from the West Midlands, all eager to talk about their love for Diana and, in some cases, their disdain for the House of Windsor.

It sometimes comes as a surprise how little respect for the monarchy is held by many ordinary people. I recall a pilgrimage of old soldiers to Cyprus shortly before Charles married Camilla in April 2005. The men in their regimental blazers and their wives in floaty, old-fashioned summer frocks, seemed the epitome of loyal English folk – until the conversation turned to Charles.

“Remind me again,” said one sweet 60-something lady, “when exactly is that bat-eared idiot getting married?”

For hundreds of reporters, covering Diana’s funeral was essential a static job.

You were either locked in Westminster Abbey or stuck in the million-strong crush outside, unable to move left or right. I had a different perspective, thanks to my choice from the menu the night before. If I have a golden rule of journalism it is to avoid sea food. So at this dinner in a smart hotel, I glanced at the menu and ordered what I took to be lamb. Good, safe stuff, lamb.

When it arrived I discovered I had ordered not escalope but scallops, which the dictionary describes as an edible bivalve mollusc and my alimentary system described as something horrendous to be ejected from the body as quickly as possible. At 3am I was vomiting and suffering extreme diarrhoea, never an easy balancing act. By 4am, purged and feeling fine, I rose, showered, dressed and plunged out of the hotel and into the thickening crowds in Whitehall.

My intention was to find a good spot, maybe somewhere in the Mall. In the event I walked the entire length of the funeral procession, from Westminster Abbey to Kensington Palace, chatting with little groups of people on the way.

Some were sombre but, at that stage, I saw no-one sobbing. Later, some of our photographers admitted they had to work hard to find any evidence of tears, even as the princess’s coffin passed by. Every picture desk wanted “Britain in Tears” images but that was not the real mood of the moment. Rather, I found people doing what Brits always do at such times.

They were chatting, joking, taking photos of each other. One group had even brought a table and piled it with food and drink. The mood in that small section, although not raucous, was more carnival than funeral.

I squeezed myself against some railings near the palace and we all waited. And then it happened. It was the strangest sensation. Suddenly, above the hubbub of the crowd, you heard a distant tinkling of horse brasses and the low growl of the gun-carriage wheels on asphalt.

All talking ceased. It was as though someone had laid a huge, sound-proof blanket over the people and only the rattle of the carriage could be heard. It swept past. There was a fleeting glimpse of the flag-draped coffin topped with lilies and I had a momentary vision of Diana’s face inside the coffin, at rest. I have attended dozens of funerals and never experienced anything like that moment.

As the coffin passed, the chatter resumed and I made my way to Hyde Park where the crowds were gathering in the sunshine for the big-screen transmission from the Abbey. I did something I rarely do, dictating my report straight into a mobile phone without making any notes. Across the park, London was deserted. I hailed a taxi to Euston, got straight on a train to Coventry and was back home as Elton John was singing Candle in the Wind.

Award-winning columnist and blogger. Keeping an eye on the tribulations and trivia of a fast-changing world