An Irishman's Diary

The Prime Minister was looking forward to his weekly meeting with the Queen. He'd had a very long day during which he'd been pestered by thoroughly disagreeable journalists and cranky "opposition" MPs from the Labour back-benches (who still, he reflected with some irritation, "didn't seem to get it" about the War on Terror).

And had endured the most frightfully unpleasant earwigging from Signor Prodi about what the passionate Italian premier persisted in calling "global warning". Now, though, he pondered the calm elegance of the encounter ahead. After all, this was the one person to whom he could pour his heart out and who had never betrayed him. He had, like many of his predecessors, come a long way from the "off with their heads" sentiments of his student days and greatly admired the Queen's wisdom and discretion.

As his official car swept on to the forecourt of Buckingham Palace his mood was further elated by the prospect of having very pleasant matters (for a change) to discuss with his Sovereign. Accompanied by a splendidly liveried footman, he strode purposefully towards the drawing-room along a crimson-carpeted corridor lined with paintings of previous monarchs, while keeping a wary eye out for stray corgis.

He had once received a rather nasty nip on the ankle from a ruddy little beast which a flunkey had called to order with the barked command "Sit, Paxman, sit!" Not for the first time had he cause to marvel at the Royal Family's quirky sense of humour.

The Queen, dressed in sensible twin-set and pearls, had been watching a recording of racing at Newmarket (having missed live coverage as the President of Finland had most inconveniently called to tea) when Mr Blair was announced and ushered in. "Your Majesty," he bowed as the door closed behind, leaving them quite alone.

"You've been having rather a difficult time, Prime Minister," she said. ("Did she really care?" he wondered. ""did she think he deserved it?" It was impossible to tell. Even after a decade, she remained utterly inscrutable.) He almost blurted out "Tell me about it", before collecting himself and responding with: "Indeed, Ma'am!" He had, in truth, been getting a good deal of grief lately and, for once, accepted the offer of a Gordon's and tonic. He served himself, of course, as staff were never present at these meetings and the Queen, who reigns, never pours.

"Now about your Irish visit, Ma'am" he began. The detailed itinerary, marked "TOP SECRET", had been sent over earlier from No 10 by red dispatch box. No details had yet been announced, even to the Cabinet. This was, after all, to be his "legacy moment". (Alas, earlier such "moments" had been cruelly hijacked at the Khyber Pass or disappeared beneath the treacherous sands of Mesopotamia.) He would accompany Her Majesty to Belfast for the opening of the Northern Ireland Assembly in March. Afterwards they would travel in triumph together for a state visit to Dublin, ending 800 years of "The Troubles", as the Irish seemingly referred to any and all manner of awkward events.

The Queen put down the document and removed her spectacles. For a moment he couldn't quite help wondering if she'd got them at Specsavers and regretted the ostentation of his own pair by Versace which Cherie had insisted were "cool". She looked him squarely in the eye and said, in her inimitable and quite terrifying fashion, "Prime Minister, I trust all outstanding matters have been resolved?" He assured her they had. "At long last," he told her, "agreement on all points has been reached. I hate to use a cliché, Ma'am, but I really do feel the hand of history on our shoulders." The Queen expertly controlled a desire to flinch and turned her attention again to the typed itinerary. Belfast, Dublin - and a blur of detail, from multi-denominational church services of thanksgiving in both cities, banquets at Stormont and Dublin Castle, tree planting in the Phoenix Park, a Te Deum at the National Concert Hall, a trip to a school in Wicklow, and a visit to the General Post Office ("Are you quite sure, Prime Minister?"). It was a hectic schedule. And there would be a special honours list - North and South - to mark the occasion.

The Prime Minister watched closely as the Queen perused his list of the Emerald Isle's great and good proposed for elevation. "Honorary knighthoods only for Dublin of course," he noted (unnecessarily). "Quite," she replied, "though one would hardly have expected so many Southerners to be interested. In a feeble attempt at humour (which he regretted as soon as the words were uttered") he said: "Oh, the Irish do like a title, Ma'am."

"That will be all, Prime Minister, thank you".

As the lights on the Mall slid past he pondered the impact tomorrow's announcement would have. It would certainly drive beastly Iraq from the newspapers and airways for days on end, especially as he had cleverly insisted on Prince William joining the Royal party. And how Mr Blair longed to be in Ireland - a country where people appreciated his hard work, patience and vision, unlike the increasingly ungrateful and sullen British public. He would announce the visit to Parliament tomorrow. The Irish Question settled for once and all. His place in the history books secured. "Mr Speaker, I wish to inform the House that I called upon Her Majesty last evening to. . ."

"Wake Up! Tony, for heaven's sake, wake up!"

The Prime Minister came to with a start - and realised that he must have nodded off while reading a bedtime story, Pinocchio, to little Leo.

"Dr Paisley's on the phone; he says it's urgent," his wife announced. "There's a big problem apparently."

Mr Blair groaned: "Oh no, no, no."