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I turned around and there was Da Kween in a bright turquoise suit smiling at me, holding out her hand to be shaken (no gloves)
''Keep still and stop fidgeting," muttered Grace through a mouthful of pins. Perched precariously on a chair, I stood as still as I could while my daughter sewed the hem on my pink Armani suit. Outside, Eric Nicoli, the chairman of EMI, stood in the rain with his chauffeur, George, waiting for me to emerge.
In the car we checked our ID - passports, driving licences, birth certificates, bank statements and personal invitations from the Queen to visit her at Buckingham Palace. We were on our way to a royal knees-up - a "do" to celebrate "the contribution of the music industry to the culture and economy of the United Kingdom". Like everyone else, I was invited to come alone, which filled me with great panic. I have never gone to public occasions on my own. I felt like a child on her first day at school. In desperation I rang Eric, who luckily also had an invite and offered to be my escort/minder for the evening. Eric has the dubious notoriety of being called "Big Boy" by Davina McCall on TV at a Brit Awards ceremony, so I felt I was in good hands.
Outside on the palace steps were a few straggly old-guard paparazzi, struggling to focus their cameras. Inside, I suddenly felt like Cinderella at the ball and had the wild urge to kick my shoes off and dance barefoot in the light of the sparkly chandeliers. Ushered through the echoing halls, we passed lines of waiters polishing glasses and pouring wine. I quickly went over to grab one (a drink, that is) for Dutch courage, and committed my first faux pas of the evening. "We'll bring the drinks to you in reception," advised the head waiter, bowing so deeply I thought he would split his trousers. I took an orange juice and mingled. I then committed my second faux pas. While being introduced to the Duke of Gloucester, I suddenly broke into a coughing fit. Hordes of equerries ran amok trying to furnish me with a serviette to mop up. Actually it wasn't such a bad mistake. Apparently most people had tried not to fall asleep while talking to him - or, having previously met him, completely avoided being reintroduced. He seemed a perfectly nice chap but somewhat lacking in the charisma department.
The three questions I knew my friends would ask the next day were: "Who was there?" "Did you meet the Queen?" and "What did she say?" Here goes . . .
The guests included the leader of the band of the Coldstream Guards, the head of music collections at the British Library, the conductor of the Windsor and Eton Choral Society, the director of the Specialist Schools Trust and (of course) the Master of the Queen's Music. Add to this a smattering of jazz musicians, sopranos, triple harpists, a large pinch of indie record company founders, a slice of fat-cat rock managers, movers and shakers, all mixed with a twist of current and former pop icons, and you had a rather heady royal cocktail.
I particularly enjoyed meeting up again with some of the old guard: Cilla Black, Roger Daltrey of the Who, Robin Gibb (still stayin' alive) and Ray Davies of the Kinks (accompanied by a rather attractive Swedish nurse, no doubt to take care of his recent mugging injuries - not). I really enjoyed meeting some of my Eighties musical heroes for the first time, like Peter Gabriel, Joan Armatrading and Kate Bush. Peter admitted to having me as a bedroom pin-up as a boy; Joan informed me she was now chair of Women in Music; and Kate took us on a grand tour of the Queen's art collection, which adorned the walls. She was ecstatic.
"Can you believe it? That's a real Rubens up there. Fancy having that in your front room," Kate bubbled. I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I turned around and there was Da Kween in a bright turquoise suit smiling at me, holding out her hand to be shaken (no gloves). She chatted away amiably and even managed to look interested as I explained my latest foray into European copyright law. All the while, Kate was rummaging in her handbag. Suddenly, she produced a pen and some paper. "Would you mind awfully signing this for my son?" she asked sweetly. The Queen looked lost for words. "I think that's a pop-star thing, Kate," I mumbled. The Queen seemed pleased to be let off the hook. "Quite right," she answered as an equerry quickly hustled her away.
Sandie Shaw's greatest hits album, The Very Best of Sandie Shaw, is available now on EMI Records
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