Quite why Dylan wanted to visit Buckingham Palace, I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to say goodbye to his English ‘heritage’ before he left it all behind. Or perhaps it was more personal than that; a subconscious impulse triggered by buried memories of childhood bedtime stories. He used to love it when I’d read A. A. Milne’s The Christopher Robin Versebook to him; his favourite poem was ‘They’re Changing Guard at Buckingham Palace’ and we’d often talked of going there although we never quite managed it. Until now that is.

The palace was being renovated; there was scaffolding everywhere and many of the staterooms were closed for refurbishment. The extravagance and opulence that remained only served to make the whole place shabbier somehow and it seemed like an apt metaphor for the state of the nation. By the end of the visit, following my running commentary on our surroundings, I felt Dylan had made real progress in viewing what he’d seen through more cynical and jaded eyes.

On the bus back, we took it in turns to give A. A. Milne’s poem an update:

They’re renovating Buckingham Palace –

Christopher Robin went down with Alice.

Past understaffed wards and cash-strapped schools,

‘The Sèvres Porcelain sounds really cool,’

wrote Dylan.

They’re renovating Buckingham Palace –

Christopher Robin went down with Alice.

The queues were as long as those for food banks,

‘There’s Vermeers, Van Dycks and even Rembrandts,’

wrote Brian.

They’re renovating Buckingham Palace –

Christopher Robin went down with Alice.

Outside, the homeless were all moved along.

‘The Grand Staircase, I’ve heard, is cast from bronze,’

wrote Dylan.

They’re renovating Buckingham Palace –

Christopher Robin went down with Alice.

‘You know so much ’bout the palace and grounds.’

‘Got a book from the library before it closed down,’

wrote Brian.

Getting home, I considered whether I should renovate my diary, too; give the entries a fresh layer of plaster, slap some paint over them. But unless I ripped the whole thing up and started again, I knew DI Lansbury would see through the cack-handed restoration to the grime underneath.

Sunday October 7th

On Locating the Poetry Section in a Bookshop

Poetry? Let’s see . . . yes, fourth floor.

No, I’m afraid there’s not a lift.

We used to keep them all down here

but they’re ever so hard to shift.

All those gloomy meditations

on the meaning of life and death!

Putting customers off, they were.

Now it’s all celebrity chef

and lifestyle books – they’re selling like

warm focaccia. But, as I say,

fourth floor – sandwiched between Transport

and Religion – out of harm’s way.

I’d rather have bought a book on erectile dysfunction. But the job is done and now I have it (This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave, that is, not erectile dysfunction).