Peace

I walk straight down the middle of The Mall, along the tightrope of white dashes which mark my route. Cars speed towards me to my right. To my left they speed away. When they coincide, I am almost spun around.

They blow their horns. They raise their hands. They look at me as if I am a fool.

Then they get close enough to recognise my face, and the anger turns to amazement, and subsequently deference.

I am a fool. But I am also the Prince of Wales. So anything goes, really. They know this. I know this. We all know this.

There is a helicopter overhead. Good. There is a film crew now, pulling up alongside. That is also good.

I don’t want to be the future king. I want to have a restful, undisturbed six months in a small residential facility in the middle of the countryside.

And this, it turns out, is the easiest way to get it.