We are half-people. Ripped from the pages of some bizarre mythology, the two sides within us, human and crown engaged in a fearful civil war, which never ends. And which blights our every human transaction as brother, husband, sister, wife, mother.

Not sure I can trust a modernist with an English name. Give me a German modernist. Or an Italian. They’re the ones who have to start all over again. Whatever would an Englishman want to change?

I am aware that I am surrounded by people who feel that they could do the job better, strong people with powerful characters, but for better or worse, the crown has landed on my head.

Who wants transparency when you can have magic? Who wants prose when you can have poetry? Pull away the veil and what are you left with? An ordinary young woman of modest ability and little imagination. But wrap her up like this, anoint her with oil, and hey, presto, what do you have? A goddess.

With this family, when you’re in, you’re never quite sure that you’re in. But when you’re out, there’s no doubt at all. You’re out.