Carol’s Column

Naturally, Prince Charles and I talked hydrangeas

A friend asked me to dinner two weeks ago: “I've made some genuine boerewors from my great-grandfather Albertus Bosman's recipe and I thought we'd grill it over the coals,” he said.

“Ag ja, well, no, fine,” I replied. “I'd love to come, but I'm already doing something.”

“What?” he said.

“Having dinner with Prince Charles,” I replied.

“Ha, ha. And I'm having supper with Nelson Mandela,” he chortled.

“No really,” I persisted.

“Ja, really,” he said. “And what's more, FW will be there too.”

He laughed again. Actually, that's what everyone did when I let casually drop, which I did only to about 1 073 close friends, that I'd been invited to Powis Castle to meet Prince Charles.

When they realised I was serious, they all said: “What for?”

I wasn't going to tell them I was just one in a bunch of journalists from round the world to whom he'd be talking about Welsh tourism.

“To chat,” I said.

It's not that I was unduly excited by the invitation. I was ecstatic. Especially when I discovered one of the other four South Africans invited was my colleague, eminent columnist James Clarke, who, like me, had bought a new pair of shoes for the occasion and had his moustache permed. They'd done a better job of his moustache than they had of mine.

En route to London, James declared: “There's nothing like a good pee,” which I thought a strange topic for conversation until I realised he was talking about the plate of chicken and peas which had been placed in front of me.

Naturally, we discussed the largest pea in the world discovered by farmer Dewi Hughs on his farm in the village of Cerrig Cyplau, which means “coupling stones”. A basic people, these Welsh.

“It's just around the corner from Powis,” I remarked. “Do you think Prince Charles knows about it?”

“What, the coupling stones?” said James, but I think he was joking.

Actually, I learnt something else on that long flight. In 1956, James Clarke was the junior British croquet champion, he told me. “I had to leave England because of croquet,” he added. “It's a vicious game. I had people chasing me all over with mallets, jealous of my great croquet skills.”

“Did you have a moustache then?” I wondered.

“No, it would have interfered with my swing,” observed James.

On arrival in Wales, our rooms were beside each other which meant we could discuss our wardrobes for the royal meeting.

We'd both brought seven suitcases with alternative outfits. Just in case. James had 18 suits, I had 47 dresses. It took us four hours to dress for the occasion. Because we're close colleagues, we blow-dried each other's hair and, if I say so myself, James looked like a younger Telly Savalas when I'd finished.

“You look like Camilla,” he said, fluffing up my hair. “Show your teeth and you're a dead-spit ringer.”

After much dithering, James decided on a debonair blue suit worn with a white and red striped silk tie which matched his eyes and I chose a second-hand Dior outfit I'd bought from my friend Pam who sells wonderful clothes from her garage in Bramley.

“Too school-mistressy,” said James as he surveyed me critically. “Prince Charles will think you want to spank him.” There wasn't time to change.

Powis Castle was unforgettable. At one stage, I found myself standing between Prince Charles and croquet champion James Clarke, discussing hydrangeas. This is perfection, I thought to myself. What more could any girl want?

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