And so to the White House for a ringside seat at the Trump circus. Another assassination attempt on the President wasn’t going to stop the royal machine. After calls between Buckingham Palace, the West Wing and the secret service while the UK press pack nervously checked their phones mid-flight to Washington, praying for the British Airways wifi to hold, the King and Queen kept calm and carried on with their state visit. It was never in doubt. Despite the White House correspondents’ dinner shooting, there was too much fear behind Whitehall and Palace walls of disappointing the Donald to pull the plug. May I commend BA for its wifi and in-flight entertainment, which features The Royals, a lively podcast on the House of Windsor.

The phrase ‘special relationship’ is banned at the UK embassy in Washington – too needy, say our envoys. Sir Christian Turner, the newly installed ambassador, tells us this is a ‘very Anglophile administration’. After four days observing the Donald fawning over the King, heaping praise on ‘my good friend Charles’, praising his ‘excellent’ speech in Congress which landed punchy blows at the President’s door, I’d say it’s more of a ‘Carlophile administration’. Trump is in thrall to the Carolean reign, not Sir Keir’s, which he assesses is nearing its end. My phone buzzed all week with messages from friends and colleagues, many of them staunch republicans. ‘Chas has played a blinder,’ said one. ‘He’s unwell and old, what a thing to have pulled off.’

The heavens opened ahead of the White House’s biggest, best, most beautiful ceremonial welcome. The start time came and went but the military bands played on. No sign of the President and his royal guests on the South Lawn, just soaking guests. The Donald was never going to risk his hair and make-up in the rain. When it eased, the new ‘fab four’ emerged, Melania under a hat. ‘What a beautiful British day,’ Trump wisecracked.

Later I landed with the Queen at the rolling pastures of Smitten Farm, Virginia, to see its thoroughbred breeding operation, her final stop before flying home for a rest as Charles soldiered on to Bermuda. Feeding mares and foals carrots, Camilla admitted it was ‘a lovely way to finish this visit’, revealing she enjoys a ‘brilliant app on my phone where I can tune in and watch them [foals] being born’. The late Queen, who watched all her foals arrive via her iPad, would approve.

Nothing brings a royal editor back down to earth like the 4 a.m. alarm call for the Lambourn gallops, where training continues apace for this rookie jockey. On 13 June, just before Royal Ascot, I’ll have one eye on Trooping the Colour and the other on the Knavesmire at York racecourse, where I’ll ride in the Macmillan Ride of their Lives, a charity race for 12 amateur jockeys over one mile and one furlong, in aid of Macmillan Cancer Support. The King is patron of this wonderful charity and the Queen is patron of York racecourse, so the day job follows me to the final furlong. The trainer Jamie Osborne is tasked with transforming me from journalist to jockey. The Queen Mother’s favourite jockey can’t remember how many Grand Nationals he rode in, but retains the unvarnished vocabulary she enjoyed when ringing him up for a gossip. The trademark cigarette is clamped between his teeth as I ask him for a brief appraisal of my prospects: ‘Just make it up,’ he shrugs. I take the absence of ferocious critique as encouraging. When I started riding out three years ago, his technical assessment was: ‘You need to stop looking like a bag of shit while you’re sitting on them.’ I missed the start at Goodwood, and the trainer has never let me forget it. I have nightmares about missing the start at York. Note to self: don’t be polite when the flag goes up.

I’ve ridden since childhood and am lucky to exercise the Household Cavalry’s magnificent beasts several mornings a week in Hyde Park. But navigating racehorse gears is in a different league. Before raceday, I must pass the dreaded jockey fitness test. I’m making endless reluctant pilgrimages to the gym. The eternally patient jockey coach George Baker, at Oaksey House, Lambourn, tries to make me look ‘tidy’ on the Equicizer, a mechanical horse jockeys train on. Some days, I could almost pass for a jockey. One morning, I put my foot in the stirrup and pull myself up. The saddle slides to the floor. The video has gone viral, and not in a good way. Champion jockey Oisin Murphy, I’m not coming for your crown. Yet.