I put my foot down on the ‘fast’ pedal as I scoot through the country lanes.

Up the single track stretch, round the bendy bit, past the old mill. The car responds to my every expert subtle touch, like a woman who is desperate. We slow as we approach the hamlet, as per the 30mph signs.

With the relaxation that comes from not being in any particular hurry, I flash my lights to allow an oncoming Range Rover to turn right. It is HM The Queen driving, with her husband HRH The Duke of Edinburgh. She has her headscarf on, like she does in the pictures.

There are two ways in which you can behave when you see a well-known celebrity person. You can gawp and goggle and point, or you can be all cool and not particularly acknowledge them. As HM The Queen is a class act, she does the latter. So does her husband HRH The Duke of Edinburgh. That is breeding for you.

I am impressed that she does not have her police with guns with her. If I was allowed to have police with guns with me, I would take them everywhere. It would be fucking cool. But that is the difference between us. She does not care about being fucking cool, as she is HM the Queen. Hence the scarf. Plus she herself is probably a better shot than I am if there is any trouble. She could shoot any extremist terrorists in an ambush whilst her husband shouted well-crafted racist abuse.

I pull onto the road that takes me home to the Village. “That was HM The Queen” I explain to Baby Servalan, who is looking unbothered in the passenger seat.