At exactly 9.45 p.m., glasses charged, we stand while a toast is proposed to the Queen. ‘The Queen’, we all say in unison. Myself included. After all, what else can a poor girl do — a die-hard Aussie republican like myself — when having dinner at Buckingham Palace with Her Majesty’s youngest son? My friends, particularly those back at the ABC, would no doubt be horrified. I can’t help smiling to myself as we adjourn to a beautiful reception room for coffee and port. At 10.15 p.m. our host Prince Edward says his farewells and is gone.

Only three weeks earlier, I was sitting at home looking out at beautiful Pittwater, named in 1788 after William Pitt the Younger, then PM of England, when up popped on my computer not your everyday email. Subject: ‘Australian Ambassador Dinner — Buckingham Palace — 8 July 2013.’ Excitedly, I clicked open the attachment. ‘We are delighted that you are available to attend this very intimate dinner hosted by His Royal Highness The Earl of Wessex, Prince Edward KG, GCVO, in support of the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award in Australia.’

I have to confess I’d barely thought about the Duke of Edinburgh Scheme since completing one of their Silver Awards back in my final school years. I remember doing the course to atone for some very rebellious earlier teen years culminating in expulsion from a private girls’ school. But that was all a long time ago. More recently, having left the TV production company I ran with Andrew Denton, I signed on as an Ambassador to the D of E Awards to help get the message out about what a great initiative it is for young Australians.

On the flight over I re-read all the notes sent to me by the D of E’s Vivienne Shahin. As well as the dinner, she has arranged for us to attend the Changing of the Guard — within the Palace. And there are even tickets to the sold-out Coronation Festival. My husband John, a proud royalist, is beside himself with joy.

Monday afternoon and I’m shouting myself hair and make-up before frocking up in a very formal full-length black number. We’re expected at the Palace by 7.30 p.m. with our invitations and two forms of photo ID. Entry will be via the Privy Purse Door. Before Prince Edward joins us, we’re reminded of strict royal protocol. He’s to be addressed as either ‘Your Highness’ or ‘Sir’. The men are told they will be introduced first and they’ll then introduce partners. Almost immediately I stuff up Royal Protocol 101. When he materialises in front of us, I jump in first, hand outstretched. H.R.H. seems unperturbed. A lifetime of being a royal means he’s very practised at small talk. ‘How are you liking London? Isn’t the weather just fabulous? How about the Lions win?’ And then, abruptly, we’re ushered in to dinner. Lucky I hadn’t royally offended the Prince as I’m seated next to him.

H.R.H. turns out to be a surprisingly affable host. Nothing like I was expecting. Over dinner of crab roulade, roast chicken and a sponge with strawberries marinated in champers, we talk about the Duke of Ed Awards. He laughingly mentions a girl who nominated pole-dancing as her physical fitness element of the Awards. He’s still keenly interested in TV production, an obvious area of common ground — although, alas, he has never seen Enough Rope or The Gruen Transfer. We also talk about Ian Thorpe and his indigenous charity, Fountain for Youth. It’s clear from what he says that all the royals love Thorpie!

Two days later we’re back at Buckingham Palace to watch the Changing of the Guard. Our hostess is Annabelle Galletley, MVO, Lady in Waiting to H.R.H. The Countess of Wessex. She tells us about the Queen’s five regiments and their bearskin hats. I’m totally captivated until I learn that each hat requires the skin of one Canadian black bear and between 50 and 100 are made every year. After an outcry from animals rights groups, attempts to replace them with synthetic fabric apparently failed. So the somewhat strange traditional method of drying the real bearskins out of the barracks window on the end of a broomstick carries on.

The Queen’s popularity has continued to soar since her Golden Jubilee. She has agreed to host the Coronation Festival in the palace grounds. It turns out this ‘festival’ is actually little more than an upmarket trade show for those whose services have been rewarded with a coveted royal warrant: ‘By appointment to…’ More than 200 ‘royal’ brands are being flogged. The chimney sweeps who clean the 300 chimneys at the Palace are tooling around on their bikes, the royal chocolatier and wine merchants are spruiking their goods, as are the official Christmas cracker folks. Even the royal gumboot makers are here — but for once, not the British press pack. With the imminent royal birth they’ve hastily left chasing a false rumour and are now camped outside St Mary’s Hospital.

On our final morning in London, I discover on the internet a wonderfully stuffy piece: ‘Protocol & Etiquette: A Very Royal Perspective.’ If only I’d read it earlier! It describes in delicious detail how you should always let the royal ‘personage’ lead the conversation, don’t try to change the subject and ask only the ‘politest’ of questions. Ladies attending royal dinners should wear an evening or three-quarter-length dress, but not in black, which is only ever suitable when the court is in mourning. My heart sinks as all too late I realise my catalogue of royal faux pas. Still, next time!