The daughter of John Latorre, the Melbourne underworld figure who was gunned down in his driveway has shared tragic new details about the moments after he was shot.

At a packed funeral service, Latorre was remembered as “a man of honor, respect and generosity,” and his daughter said she did “all she could” to save him after his execution killing.

The family hugged and cried as they entered the church, dressed from head to toe in black for the somber occasion.

As hundreds of mourners filled the pews of St. Monica’s Catholic Church in Moonee Ponds, Latorre’s flower-filled casket was displayed at the front of the church, complete with a floral wreath and a framed photo of Latorre.

A heart-shaped floral tribute was also placed at the front, with ‘Nonno’ written in red letters, while hymns played in the background in both English and Italian.

Mr Latorre is said to have been a discreet but influential member of the Australian branch of the ‘Ndrangheta’ – a powerful mafia organization from Calabria, southern Italy.

Latorre’s wife Maria and daughter Antoinette shared the role of the Catholic death rituals, which included sprinkling the coffin with water and lighting the memorial candle.

In delivering the eulogy, Antoinette said her father was a “pillar of strength.”

“Latorre means ‘the tower’ in Italian and daddy, you always will be,” she said.

‘My beautiful and wonderful father, I cannot believe that you are no longer here with us – it was not your time to go.

“I want you to know that I tried everything I could to help you that morning. I was close to you, just as you are to me.

‘My courage and strength came from you that day – we will always remember you and say your name, you will never be forgotten.

‘You were a man of honor, respect and generosity. You taught us the importance of family. You told us that we are strong and to hold our heads high.”

Latorre’s other daughter, Melina, broke down in tears as she delivered her eulogy, saying she had “never felt so much pain” and that her heart was “irreparably broken.”

“You taught us from such a young age the value of respecting our family and friends, which I think has become part of who we are,” she said.

‘Deep down you were a big softie and would do anything for us.

‘Not a day goes by that we don’t look at your picture and talk to you.

“I am truly sorry that you left this earth so suddenly and not on your time or God’s time.

“You didn’t deserve this.”

Father Joe Giacobbe introduced the Mass and said that in addition to formal tributes such as hymns, a clear tribute to Latorre was the large number of people who attended the funeral.

“If you want a tribute to the lord, look around,” he said.

“This is a pretty big church and it’s full, probably twice as big.”

A second introductory and opening prayer was also said in Italian, including a series of Ave Maria thanksgiving prayers.

Latorre was a fruiter who had been a fixture at the Melbourne Markets in Epping.

About 4:30 a.m. on March 12, he was shot in the driveway of his Greenvale home with gunshots to his upper body as he left for work.

He died instantly and his bloodied body was discovered shortly afterwards by a shocked relative.

The Herald Sun previously reported that Latorre’s murder contract had required the green light from the top of the mafia, suggesting it may have been some kind of fly-in-fly-out job.

Multiple sources confirmed to the same masthead that there was no way the murder of someone as high-status as Latorre could have happened without sanctions from the Honored Society bosses.

Detectives are piecing together the circumstances surrounding the murder and continue to appeal for any information relating to the murder.

It is believed that a small motorcycle was the getaway vehicle for the killer, and police intelligence suggests that the bicycle that ‘made a loud noise’ was seen near Latorre’s home in Buchanan Place around the time of the murder.

Police continue to investigate possible links between organized crime and the shooting.

No one has been charged in connection with his death and police are still searching for his killer.

Ruturaj Gaikwad was handed the CSK captaincy a night ago when MS Dhoni resigned after 14 years at the helm.

Chennai: Not once did he feel the burden of captaincy, said Ruturaj Gaikwad, the newly appointed skipper of Chennai Super Kings, after the defending champions started their IPL 2024 campaign with a six-wicket win over Royal Challengers Bangalore at the MA Chidambaram Stadium on Friday . The 27-year-old was given the captaincy by Dhoni on Thursday, a move that was planned.

From the toss to the end of the match, Gaikwad kept his composure appropriately and didn’t even seem under pressure, just like Dhoni who led the franchise from 2008 to 2023. “I have always enjoyed it (captaincy). I didn’t feel the extra pressure directly from the state side.

“Not once have I felt pressured by anything. Obviously, Mahi had bhai with me,” Gaikwad said at the post-match presentation ceremony.

Lindsay Hubbard claimed Carl Radke is “not a very sexual person,” as he describes their sex life in the latest episode of Summer house.

“How often do you have sex?” Paige DeSorbo she asked during the Thursday, March 21 episode of the Bravo series, which was filmed in July 2023. Lindsay, 37, replied, “Like once every few weeks.”

Paige, 31, was shocked by Lindsay’s revelation and told her: “You need to change that!”

“You probably have more sex with your long-distance boyfriend than you do with me,” Lindsay said, referring to Paige’s relationship with Southern charm‘S Craig Conover who lives in another state. Paige teased, “Craig and I are king all the time.”

Amanda Batula noted that Lindsay shouldn’t “compare” her and Carl’s romance to her own Kyle Cooke since they’ve been together for almost ten years. However, Amanda said Amanda, 32, and Kyle, 42, had sex “every day” during the second year of their relationship.

Lindsay shared that when she and Carl, 39, are intimate, they have “such good sex,” but hinted that Carl didn’t seem interested in upping their bedroom game.

“Your damn boyfriend and your husband are on the initiative. Mine just won’t even start,” she claimed of her then-fiancé.

While Amanda and Paige encouraged Lindsay to keep trying with Carl, Paige later expressed her concerns about their relationship during a confessional.

“I feel like when people talk about their sex lives, they’re kind of lying,” she told the cameras, explaining that Lindsay saying they “don’t have sex for two weeks in a row” in “girl math” means it was really “six weeks” of nothing. “I don’t make the rules, but that’s alarming,” Paige admitted.

Carl wasn’t in the Hamptons when Lindsay told the girls about their bedroom problems. Kyle, meanwhile, told the group of boys that he had heard about similar issues between the couple through friends.

“People who have been to their apartment have told me that it looks like they may be sleeping separately there as well,” Kyle claimed while speaking to Craig, who was in town to visit Paige, and roommates. Jesse Solomon And WestWilson.

Kyle noted that based on Carl and Lindsay’s drama during the first few weeks of the summer, he thought there were “deep-seated issues” between them. “I’m worried about the man,” he admitted.

Earlier this season, Lindsay accused Carl of drug use several times, which he adamantly denied. The tension led to Carl deciding to skip that Friday in the Hamptons in an effort to “break the cycle of the Friday night fight.”

We weekly confirmed in August 2023 that Carl had called off his engagement to Lindsay after filming season 8. The couple planned to tie the knot in November.

Summer house airs on Bravo Thursdays at 9pm ET.

By Ali Daher for Daily Mail Australia

Published: 08:09 EDT, March 21, 2024 | Updated: 08:27 EDT, March 21, 2024

GARY NEVILLE joked that Ian Wright’s FA Cup semi-final draw “didn’t feel right” after fans accused it of being “fixed”.

The draw took place at Old Trafford on Sunday, after Manchester United’s thrilling 4-3 win over Liverpool.

3

3

3

The Red Devils played Championship side Coventry, while holders Manchester City were paired with Chelsea.

But the manner of the draw sent many fans into a frenzy as Wright selected the balls in front of Roy Keane and Graeme Souness in the studio.

They remained seated as Wright rummaged around in the famous velvet bag before showing the numbers to the camera.

And the viewers were not told in advance which song belonged to which team.

The casual atmosphere was a far cry from most draws, which usually take place in a much more formal setting.

Teams were also drawn directly from the bag rather than first being placed in a hat as is traditionally the case.

And Manchester United legend Neville spoke about the bizarre format when speaking to Arsenal icon Wright during the latest edition of Stick to football.

He said: “That didn’t feel right at the end, you pulled it out like a Marks and Spencer bag.”

CASINO SPECIAL – BEST CASINO WELCOME OFFERS

Lioness legend Jill Scott then wondered why “nobody laughed” about Wright’s comment about shaking his “ball sack.”

Before the ex-Gunners man replied: “Do you know how many people went crazy over that?

“It’s only four balls. I think people were a bit upset about the fact that we didn’t know who was one, two, three and four.

“But the most important thing is that they are so strict on ‘don’t look in the bag, make sure the bag is closed properly before you open it so you don’t look’.

“People end up saying, ‘What’s he doing the Stevie Wonder for?’ I wasn’t doing Stevie Wonder, I was just making sure I wasn’t looking in so much [moves his head away] and it looked like Stevie Wonder.

“But I didn’t want people to say, ‘Ah, that draw was wrong.’

“People still slaughtered you, but I thought it was a great draw.”

There is no evidence that claims the draw has been fixed.

Handing back the clementine tart to my dinner party hostess, I tell her I want a bigger slice. Hardly polite behaviour, especially as I’ve just told her that when we first met, I thought she was a b***h. But after six glasses of wine, I don’t care.

Alcohol has freed me from my responsibilities as a friend, mother, daughter and wife so that I’m guffawing at my own wisecracks, impervious to the feelings of others. In my drunken parallel world, I am attractive, I am witty, I am charming… but my husband Chris looks confused as I make heart shapes across the table at him with my fingers like a teenager.

Six hours later, I am staring into my bloodshot eyes as I rest my forehead against the cool glass of my bathroom mirror. Reminded of the last time I had a hangover of this magnitude, back in December 2021, I am overcome with a familiar sense of shame and nausea.

For more than two years, not so much as a drop of alcohol touched my lips. After nearly three decades of regular, enthusiastic and at times heavy drinking, I credited sobriety with newfound clarity, increased confidence and a stable mood.

The more I learned about the damage alcohol does physically, psychologically and societally, the more determined I was to avoid it. And I’d found it easier than I’d thought.

Having embarked on a new sober life at the start of 2022, I lasted until January 20 this year, when, after 750 alcohol-free days, I became a drinker again. I have drunk six times since then, to varying degrees, of which last weekend’s display was by far the most extreme — a deliberate, if destructive, attempt to see if I still enjoyed the sensation of getting drunk.

I didn’t make the decision to drink again lightly. Most of us are aware of the dangers of alcohol, but I’d reached the disappointing conclusion that it seemed integral to my social life and sense of belonging. Unlike so many other sober people I admire, in a society still obsessed with alcohol, I am too weak to go against the grain.

On top of that, increasingly sobriety had come to feel like another form of perfectionism, a way of proving my worth, a stick to beat myself with — less an achievement than a millstone around my neck. The longer I abstained, the further I had to fall from the pedestal on which I’d put myself. I knew drinking again would trigger complex feelings of guilt and relief, shame and liberation, but I was intrigued to see whether it would prove worth it in the long run.

For much of my adult life, alcohol has been part of my identity, turning me into ‘fun Toni’ at parties and helping me switch off after a stressful day.

Two pregnancies and five Dry Januarys notwithstanding, I had drunk alcohol every week since I was a teenager. I could stop at one glass, but usually wanted more.

As a mother of two children, now aged 13 and 11, I saw wine as an essential antidote to the hard graft of parenting — often drinking half a bottle after a hard day. During lockdown, my drinking increased to the extent that I even taught my then 11-year-old daughter how to make my daiquiris.

I drank more than the recommended 14 units a week, but, I reassured myself, no more than many fortysomething women. Though aspects of my drinking were problematic I did not, as far as every popular metric around drinking was concerned, have a problem.

Increasingly, however, hangovers left me racked with anxiety over what I might have said or done wrong. After a particularly boozy Christmas in 2021, I wondered if life would feel easier without alcohol.

Halfway through Dry January 2022, I decided to quit for longer, signing up to Monument, an online sobriety school. Unlike AA, which maintains alcoholism is a disease that can never be cured, Monument believes alcohol abuse is a spectrum and that alcohol — addictive to everyone — is the culprit, rather than the person drinking it.

As months passed, I saw alcohol in an increasingly sinister light. Yes, much of my drinking had seemed harmless, but it had also been behind every traumatic event in my life: from fracturing my wrist as a student to getting sacked from my first job during work drinks. It had also stopped me developing healthy coping strategies for difficult situations. Meeting new friends or dating? The easy, instant solution became drink.

Yet stopping was easier than I expected, even at events — birthdays, a wedding, two funerals — where our instinctive reaction is often to drink.

Sober, I read voraciously, my productivity soared and my skin glowed. I felt braver, kinder, capable of making small talk at parties without the social lubrication of alcohol.

My husband, who has always been a moderate drinker who can take or leave alcohol, was pleased — he’d always thought I was happier not drinking — and my children happy they had more of my attention.

Yet privately, a part of me also felt embarrassed. I hadn’t hit rock bottom, crashed my car or streaked naked while drunk. I was just a midlife mum who liked wine a bit too much. Was stopping drinking entirely a tad melodramatic? An attention-seeking ploy?

My friends, most of them enthusiastic drinkers, were supportive but surprised by my all-or-nothing drinking strategy. Yet as an all-or-nothing person, I was convinced if I had one glass, I’d want another — and I’d soon be back to a life where weekends without wine seemed inconceivable.

I marked a year alcohol-free with mixed emotions — making a big deal out of it felt fraudulent.

To stay motivated, I knew I needed further goals to aspire to. Yet, slowly, my good intentions unravelled.

I signed up to a novel-writing course but dropped out halfway through. I couldn’t conquer the wine-avoiding chocolate habit that had seen me gain half a stone. Meanwhile, my social media use soared as I tried to get the missing dopamine hit from likes and comments. Instead, constantly comparing myself to others made me feel anxious and depleted.

In short, sobriety no longer seemed transformational — after gaining in confidence during the first year, the benefits had plateaued and I began to feel bored.

Towards the end of last year, I admitted to myself I missed drinking. Not for its stress-relieving properties — I’d learned that if you simply sit with difficult emotions, they will pass. What I lacked was alcohol’s licence for stupidity and relief in a serious adult world.

Nobody had treated me like an outsider but, increasingly, I felt like one.

Sobriety influencers suggest we ditch heavy-drinking friends and seek support networks among non-drinkers. But I loved my friends, and at 45 had neither the time nor energy to find new ones.

I struggled to shake a gnawing sense of otherness: on the sidelines of my son’s football match as parents anticipated their lunchtime pint; at the mulled wine table outside the school Christingle service; and when a friend’s face dropped when she realised the bottle of Prosecco I’d turned up with was non-alcoholic.

So in early January, ahead of a reunion, I told my three university friends that I would be drinking. They said they loved me drunk or sober but jumped to get a second bottle of Prosecco when I arrived.

Chris was apprehensive. He had supported me more than anyone in my decision not to drink. But my heart hammered with excitement and trepidation.

I expected the Prosecco to taste disgusting — as alcohol does to a teenager — but the bubbles sparkled deliciously on my tongue. I felt overwhelmed and tearful that, at least, I had finally made my decision.

A few sips later and I felt a familiar sense of giddiness. I had planned to stop after one glass — a new ground rule, along with not drinking at home or in response to stress. But the detachment from being slightly drunk, and delight at being with friends, rendered rules ridiculous. I drank another glass and a half of white wine over lunch.

For a few hours, I felt blissfully removed from the outside world. It was only as the effects wore off that I wondered what alcohol actually contributed to the occasion. An illusion of joy, undoubtedly. But were my conversations more meaningful as a result? Was my laughter more heartfelt?

I wasn’t sure.

My husband was relieved I seemed lucid on my return. But I woke at 5am with a dry mouth and sense of unidentified panic — a reaction to the alcohol, undoubtedly, but perhaps guilt at starting drinking again, too.

I’d forgotten how deeply unpleasant I am with a hangover. Groggy and irritated, I snapped at my daughter for making a mess icing cakes and couldn’t muster enthusiasm for my son’s football match. The children didn’t say anything, but I felt a terrible mother.

Alcohol can be detected on the breath for up to 14 hours after a drink, but I believe it affected me for the rest of the week.

Seven days later, friends were incredulous when I said I was still too hungover to drink again. While the effects may have been psychological, research shows that after a long period of abstinence, our functional tolerance (the ability to withstand impairments such as slurred speech) and metabolic tolerance (the rate at which the liver eliminates alcohol from the body) reduces.

My children had been so proud of me for not drinking that I was too ashamed to tell them I’d started again. They found out a fortnight later, through my daughter’s friend, after I wrote about it on Instagram. Yet I was surprised by their mostly sympathetic reaction.

‘I just don’t think after two years you’re going to get drunk any more,’ my daughter reassured me — and I realised she might be right. It was the permission I had given myself to drink, more than the drink itself, that I had found liberating.

It was nearly a month before I drank again at a pub with friends. As soon as the Sauvignon Blanc hit my empty stomach, my inhibitions were lowered, conversations seemed less guarded, more intimate… and, in truth, more fun. When my glass was finished (we were all driving), I felt a tangible sense of loss.

One glass, I realised, would probably never feel enough. Yet it was enough to make me wake at 5am, feeling miserable. I also believe alcohol made me more emotional and less resilient that week. I flew off the handle when Chris forgot to get the firewood and cried during an episode of Friends.

I wondered if, for moderate drinkers, a long period of abstinence could act as a circuit-breaker — rewiring the brain to consume less. If so, it was a huge relief I appeared to be one of them.

Yet even drinking a glass or two sporadically over a period of weeks, I noticed my skin looked more lined, spots appeared around my nose and chin, and my sleep, even on nights I wasn’t drinking, was disrupted. To assuage my guilt, I exercised harder, braved howling gales to run when injury allowed and spent 45 minutes instead of 30 on my exercise bike. I turned down crisps to compensate for the calories in wine and ate less chocolate. I lost 5lb, but it was a pyrrhic victory.

But I was also curious to know if the sense of abandon being drunk once provided, and that I used to crave, still held the same appeal. Hence this weekend’s dinner party. ‘I might start swearing,’ I warned the other guests.

‘I haven’t seen drunk Toni for so long,’ one friend said excitedly; another told me I was ‘sparkling’. Though I wanted my sober self to be enough, I was quietly thrilled by the compliment.

My memories began to blur after four glasses of champagne, and by 9pm, when I had moved on to Sancerre, I was slurring my words. My husband says I’m more interesting sober, ‘because you’re repeating yourself endlessly when drunk’. Nevertheless, I was overcome with affection for him — hence the out-of-character hearts across the table.

The freedom from the pandemonium of my midlife thoughts — work, children, chores, repeat — is welcome.

Of course, it comes at a cost. By the taxi ride home I was hiccupping, and I woke with a jolt at 4.27am, with a sense of self-loathing that lingered 48 hours on.

As I type, I’m wondering whether my behaviour towards my hostess warrants an apology, and vow not to get that drunk again.

‘So, was it worth it?’ a fellow guest WhatsApps me.

To which I say, I just don’t know. While I don’t think I’ll ever get that drunk again, an all-out ban isn’t on the cards either. A life of total sobriety no longer appeals.

A WRITTEN woman found herself in an awkward situation when her bra got stuck to the ceiling.

She had to apologize to her mother when the bra came loose more than she expected.

3

Tiara (@tiarajanex) shared the fashion faux pas in a TikTok video.

She was shocked to see her sticky bra stuck to the ceiling and jumped up to retrieve it.

Although she didn’t pull hard, white paint came off along with the bra.

Tiara brought the stick-on bra to the camera to show the layers of paint that are now on the adhesive.

“Mom, if you see this, I am so sorry and I still don’t know why the paint was peeling off the ceiling,” she said.

Viewers were confused as to how her sticky bra ended up on the bra.

“Girl, why were they on the ceiling in the first place?” one asked.

Tiara revealed the culprit responsible for destroying her ceiling.

“Friend threw them there,” she said.

Some revealed that they too were caught up in a letting go problem.

“Why don’t I have an original experience?” one commenter asked.

“Apparently this isn’t an original experience, so I’m in, girl,” Tiana replied.

Many were impressed with the bra’s adhesiveness and thought it was at least a testament to its quality.

“This should be an ad,” one viewer joked.

3

3

A thrift store enthusiast has struck gold with her fashion find.

Her Goodwill designer discovery was crazy and completely unexpected.

2

2

She thought the price she paid for this pair of heels was ‘insane’.

Luck was on her side, because the store employees didn’t know what they were getting with this star purchase.

But Shannon McDade (@shannonmcdade) Sure, and she took them.

This lady has an earlier form when it comes to second-hand designer items.

On TikTok she describes herself as someone who ‘saves’.

In the past she has found pieces from Chanel and Louis Vuitton.

She knows quality when she sees it and jumps in first.

In the afterher jaw was almost on the floor when she saw this designer item.

“This was crazy and completely unexpected,” she said.

“Look what I found at Goodwill,” she said, holding a pair of silver strappy platform heels in her hands.

“YSL heels, $5.29. I’m dead now. I had to walk around the store like I wasn’t just finding $1,000 heels for $5,” she said.

YSL (Yves Saint Laurent) is a legendary French fashion house.

Brand new YSL sandals, similar to the ones she found, went for $905.

“I love it when the thrift store employees don’t mark their good brands,” she said as she walked to the register.

It was a nice day of thrift shopping.

“So insane for that price,” she added.

Commenters were as impressed with them as she was.

‘Omg, I’m obsessed. I’m 39. Let me know when these go on sale,” one fan begged.

“Keep them and wear them,” another suggested.

“They are so beautiful,” said a third person.

When Prince Charles married Lady Diana Spencer in 1981, it seemed no aspect of the fairytale wedding went unnoticed – from the bride’s extraordinary 23-foot train to the role her father, Earl Spencer, played as he walked unsteadily through the aisle walked.

But there was another figure who, although she preferred to stay behind the scenes, had played a central role that day.

Not only was Lady Sarah McCorquodale Diana’s eldest sister, she was also a friend and confidante of the groom – a former friend, in fact – and the woman who, as she later admitted, had played cupid in bringing Charles and Diana together.

She would later become a trusted ally to her sister when the marriage ended, as well as a support to Princes William and Harry when their mother died under such terrible circumstances.

“I introduced them,” Lady Sarah said of Charles and Diana ahead of their wedding. “I’m Cupid.”

Just three years earlier, it was speculated that Lady Sarah would be the one to marry Charles.

She had met the Prince of Wales at a polo match in 1977, at a time of increasing public interest in who the heir to the throne would choose as his bride.

Charles was then approaching thirty.

Lady Sarah abruptly put an end to the rumors in 1978 after a ski trip with the Prince in the Swiss resort of Klosters.

It was a “great vacation, but there is no question of an engagement,” she told reporters.

Sarah, then 22, said: ‘There’s no way I’m marrying him. I’m not in love with him. And I wouldn’t marry anyone I didn’t love, whether he was the garbage man or the King of England.

‘If he asked me, I would turn him down. I would only marry for love.’

But as she poured cold water on her own royal match, she fanned the flames of a possible marriage between him and her sister.

It was Sarah who had first introduced Charles to Diana at the Spencer family manor of Althorp in Northamptonshire.

Educated at the famous West Heath boarding school, near Sevenoaks, in Kent, Lady Sarah later worked in London.

When younger sister Diana moved to London in the late 1970s, she shared Sarah’s flat.

Andrew Morton’s biography of Diana suggested that Sarah assigned her sister much of the cleaning work, although Diana did not mind the work.

It was during Diana’s stay in London that her relationship with Charles blossomed. There was intense media attention on the young woman who could become the Princess of Wales.

In the meantime, Lady Sarah had met Neil McCorquodale, a farmer and former officer in the Coldstream Guards.

They married in a modest ceremony on 17 May 1980 at St Mary’s Church in the village of Great Brington near Althorp with a reception at the family home.

Her sister’s engagement was another matter and was international news when it was announced on February 24, 1981.

The wedding at St Pauls on June 29 that year was televised worldwide to 750 million people.

St Paul’s was chosen partly because it could seat more people than Westminster Abbey, the traditional venue for royal weddings. An estimated 600,000 people lined the route.

The sisters followed very different paths – one was a princess, the other a farmer – but they remained close.

Lady Sarah – or Lady Sarah McCorquodale, as she had become – often accompanied Diana on official visits as one of her ladies-in-waiting. And Sarah was one of the few people Diana trusted during her final years.

Sarah, who has three children of her own, often helped the princess care for William and Harry.

The sisters regularly went on holiday with their children.

After Diana’s death on August 31, 1997, her sisters and Charles were responsible for collecting her body.

Lady Sarah read a heartfelt poem at Diana’s funeral.

Lady Sarah was co-executor of Diana’s will and also became chair of the Diana, Princess of Wales Memorial Fund before it closed in 2012.

Sarah, 69, and sister Jane, 67 – now Lady Jane Fellowes – have remained close to their cousins ​​Prince William and Prince Harry.

When Prince William said an emotional farewell in October 2012 to his childhood nanny, Olga Powell, who cared for him both in his youth and in the most important days of his adult life, his aunt was by his side.

She also attended William’s 2011 wedding to Kate Middleton, as well as Harry’s 2018 wedding to Meghan Markle in 2018, and their son Archie’s christening the following year.

The close bond between the sisters is reflected in a Spencer family tradition that all three – Sarah, Jane and Diana – have embraced in their lives.

At Lady Sarah’s wedding, the bride wore a classic bouquet of white flowers and a high-neck lace dress, along with the Spencer family tiara.

The tiara, made by Garrard’s, features an elaborate design of stylized flowers decorated with diamonds in silver settings.

Believed to date from the 18th century, it was given as a wedding gift to Diana’s grandmother, Cynthia, Viscountess Althorp, by distant relative Lady Sarah Spencer in 1919.

While all three Spencer sisters wore the headpiece on their wedding days, their mother, Frances Shand Kydd, did not wear it when she married Earl Spencer in 1954.

The Spencer family has long been part of the British aristocracy, and two of Sarah’s grandmothers – Cynthia Spencer and Ruth Roche, Baroness Fermoy – served as ladies-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother.

The family had such a close relationship with the royal family that the Queen Mother was godmother to Sarah, who herself shares the Queen Mother’s first name and was born Elizabeth Sarah Lavinia.

Although Princess Diana was not a bridesmaid at her eldest sister’s wedding, Princess Margaret’s daughter, Lady Sarah Chatto, was.

Lady Sarah and Neil McCorquodale remain together and have three adult children, Emily Jane, Celie Rose and George Edmund.

The couple enjoy a peaceful life near Grantham, Lincolnshire, where she served a one-year term as High Sheriff of Lincolnshire in 2009. In 2010 she became a master of the Belvoir Hunt.