My surreal evening as Camilla’s date
FAME, one quickly realises, leads to invitations. And there are some you simply cannot refuse. Such as the lustrously embossed card which arrived one morning asking my wife Gill and me to Highgrove to dine with Prince Charles.
This was in 2001, and you can just picture the levels of excitement in our kitchen that day. There were so many questions to ponder. Why? How many people will be there? Six? 12? 20?
We left in good time for the 7pm arrival stipulated on the invitation. Imagine our delight, then, when on the very last leg of the journey, just a few miles from Highgrove, the traffic in front of us ground to a complete standstill!
‘Where are they all going?’ I asked Gill. We soon found out. The trail of traffic led through the gates of Highgrove, where we were guided by stewards into a giant field set aside for parking, beyond which a massive marquee was visible.
Guess who’s coming to dinner? Everybody. Our tete-a-tete supper appointment was a stonking great gala dinner for 400 held in honour (we then discovered) of the Spanish tile firm Porcelanosa.
Biting down a mixture of disappointment and relief (me) and a mixture of disappointment and further disappointment (Gill), we were guided through the throng to a VIP reception area, where among our exclusive number were Alan Titchmarsh, Richard Whiteley, Carol Vorderman and Sarah Kennedy.
But of the royal party there was no sign. Eventually, a message was brought to our gathering. ‘There’s a slight delay. The Prince fell from his horse during a game of polo this afternoon and has been taken to hospital.’
Then a short while later: ‘The Prince needs to be at the hospital a while longer, so he won’t be able to join us this evening.’ Apparently, though, Camilla was on her way from the hospital to join us, along with William and Harry, who had agreed to make speeches in their father’s absence.
As I strained to witness their arrival, a member of the royal household tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Would you join Camilla for dinner? She needs an escort.’ So our intimate dinner with Prince Charles now found my wife on a table with the presenter of Ground Force, and me a couple of hundred yards away, seated to the left of the Duchess of Cornwall. Which, I suppose, for the duration of the meal at least, made me first in line to the throne. Unless that’s not the way it works . . .