Palace Notebook

The day of my investiture at Buckingham Palace dawned bringing freezing rain and fierce winds, which lashed at the windows as I regarded the outfit I had painstakingly planned — a lightweight, cream wool suit. A little damp didn’t bother me, so I didn’t care if I’d be shivering as Prince Charles pinned the medal on to my cape. No — it was the fate of the hat that worried me most. Designed by milliner Philip Treacy, it was a frothy creation of white grosgrain, chiffon flowers and delicate veiling, and I was concerned about the wind whipping it off. My best friend Judy Bryer said soothingly, ‘Philip has put so much construction inside that even a gale wouldn’t shift it.’

After much primping, my husband Percy, my two oldest children and I drove to the Palace. We averted a potential disaster when, at the gates, Percy confessed to having left his photo ID behind. ‘Will you vouch for this gentleman?’ the helmeted bobby inquired. ‘Well, I’m not sure if I’d go that far, but he is my husband,’ I joked. The policeman smiled politely, stared at me to make sure I was the real McCoy, and ushered our driver into the outer courtyard.

Once inside we were separated, and I was shown into a vast hall. There we were instructed in protocol and the ladies made to practise our curtseys. The future knights weren’t let off, as they had to practise kneeling on a velvet stool and rising again, amid much creaking of joints. Walking through the hallowed passages on the way to the Investiture Hall, I couldn’t help but feel slightly giddy as my moment approached. ‘Walk, stop, walk, stop, turn, curtsey, walk, stop, curtsey, stand, wait, curtsey, walk backward, stop, curtsey, turn, walk,’ I repeated to myself.