By royal command

SHE is still. So very still. Amid all the nervous energy and excitement. It defines her. Here, in her house. And beyond it.

SHE is still. So very still. Amid all the nervous energy and excitement. It defines her. Here, in her house. And beyond it.

The invitation was not so much suggestion as summons. "The Master of the Household has received Her Majesty's command to invite…" Surreal, magical, impossible. Meeting the Queen with other Australians, in Buckingham Palace, on the eve of her Australia trip?

Too busy; the gilt-edged card regretfully put aside. Mentioned in passing to my dad. He said he'd kill me if I didn't go. Debrett's, the authority on etiquette, explained one does not lightly refuse the Queen's command. I could see the shine of it in the parents' faces, the children's; we're programmed to respond to narratives of enchantment, are we not? Come on old cynic, get a move-on. Life is for seizing. So, the baby was bundled up. Flown to London for four mad days. Gulping life, yes, damn well skulling it. What to wear? The invitation said "day dress". How to curtsy - does one? Shake hands? God knows.

Buckingham Palace has masculine hauteur, is sternly fenced off and curiously blank. Perhaps that's the key to its mystique: what on Earth's behind it? Well, slip beyond its gilded railings, look back briefly at the tourists pressing cameras through iron bars, marvel at the sheer unbelievability of it all, then walk through that seemingly impenetrable stone oblong and lo and behold: a central courtyard. Of astonishing lightness. So, a palace hollowed out, who would have thought? Behind its solid edifice is playfulness, airiness, relief.

And its protector? Caretaker rather than owner. Her home a museum, art gallery, tourist attraction, where someone happens to live. She touches the place lightly. Up the huge staircase, through rooms fat with staff, past walls crowded with paintings. We are announced one by one; a whiff of Shakespeare's histories in the sheer pageantry of it. Occupation, "author"; title, "Ms" (the chap won't be liking that). The Queen tiny, much smaller than expected, as is the Duke. Her skin smooth, pale, luminescent, as if it's never seen a wink of sunlight; the wondrous antithesis of elderly Australian women. She's apparently met four million people, I a drop of sand in the duty of her life. It's only when I tell her how gorgeous she looks that she cracks that radiant, girly smile that zooms you back to photos of her as a young woman. "The strongest argument for doing away with the royal family is… what it reduces us all to," commentator Polly Toynbee wrote. Well, I'm reduced. For I know I curtsied to the Queen and can still feel the imprint of her brief, firm handshake but cannot explain how I did both. It could be age but I put it down to addled, dazzled wonder. She has that effect.

What's evident, most of all, is containment. Rare poise. The antithesis of modern-day celebrity. "Aren't they prima donnas?" she reportedly said of footballers to the Premier League chairman. She has a radiant sense of composure. Doesn't do questions. Has been known to greet innocent inquiries such as "Did you have a nice Christmas?" with a stare.

The Queen embodies solid, old-fashioned qualities of duty, robustness, modesty, endurance, service. British artist Tracey Emin recently installed a neon artwork in the Prime Minister's residence proclaiming "more passion". I'd love to see her create an artwork around the Queen. Can't imagine it. By Her Majesty's mystery we are drawn, the composure through so much. This palace bombed seven times during wartime, her father unseemly thrust into the monarchy, half of her realms becoming republics during her reign, blanks fired as she rode, a bedroom intruder, her skittish family. There's something deeply moving about her stillness.

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