Jan Moir’s diary

Sunday afternoon brings the bomb squad to South Kensington. From my third-floor window, I see them fan out through the garden square, scrutinising leaf and bud, lamppost and compost bin. Drains are peered into, postboxes eyed suspiciously. Although Windsor Castle is 23 miles to the west, the Queen’s state banquet for the Irish President Michael D. Higgins has brought them here. A high-ranking contingent of Irish banquet-goers are staying at a nearby hotel. Including, local rumour has it, Martin McGuinness himself. In their smart blue caps and hi-vis vests, the cops rifle through camellia bushes with the diligence of devoted horticulturists. If the irony of their situation affects them, it does not show.

At Waitrose in Kensington High Street, an assistant scans my copy of the Daily Mail. ‘I love the Mail!’ she cries, unexpectedly. This plunges me into columnist conundrum. Is she saying this because she recognises me? Unlikely, I know.