IT’S not very often an envelope drops through the letterbox with the postmark ‘Buckingham Palace’ embossed on its front so to say the occurrence caused a degree of excitement at home would be an understatement.

“I love a couple of days in London,” announced The Mother as I showed her the invitation.

“I think it’s my name on there,” I pointed out.

“If you are going to a reception with the King and Queen we’re going to be there to see you going through the gates and take pictures for posterity..aren’t we?” she replied looking at the housemate for support.

“Well you can come to London because I’ve got a few days holiday left and we could make a short break of it but you’re not coming to Buckingham Palace,” I said firmly.

“Alright…we can discuss that closer to the date,” she replied.

It was a subject which remained closed until we found ourselves walking from the car park to our hotel last week.

“You’re going to need to get a cab from the the hotel to Buckingham Palace,” advised The Mother.

“It’s not far to walk,” I said enjoying the sunshine of the capital.

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied “ You might never get the chance again to get into a taxi and say ‘Buckingham Palace please’, so you have to make the most of it!”

“And what are you going to be doing when I’m in the taxi to Buckingham Palace?” I asked tentatively.

“We’ll be in it with you,” she replied with a smile.

Seeing my slightly concerned face, she relented.

“We won’t really come with you,” she assured. “You know we wouldn’t embarrass you.”

Torn between contradicting her and making her day, I opted for the latter, having always regretted banning her from Nevill Street when the King - then Prince Charles - paid a visit to the Chronicle offices several years ago.

“You can come with me and you can have some pictures but then you disappear,” I said.

“Really?” She asked. “I didn’t think it would be that easy. We were expecting to have to follow you in another taxi!”

Several hours later we found ourselves among the crowds of people milling around outside the Palace.

“We’d better have pictures at every gate because I need to have plenty to show to people,” said The Mother wielding her phone.

After a lengthy photo session in which she was aided and abetted by Alan, my colleague from Devon, who it transpired was just as keen to have photos at the gates, I gently moved The Mother and the housemate away from the fence.

“We’re going to meet our MD go through the security checks,” I explained. “So you two can head off and we’ll see you back at the hotel.”

With very little argument they both meekly set off in the vague direction of The Mall as I breathed a sigh of relief.

Moments later as we passed through the gates and headed towards the entrance of Buckingham Palace I glanced backwards and there with their faces pressed against the railings were The Mother and the housemate.

“You’re the first person in our family to be invited to a reception with the King and Queen at Buckingham Palace and there’s no way I’d miss you walking through those doors,” she announced later with the pride which only a mother knows.

“What were the loos like?” she added in true Welsh style.