On the Saturday, I turn up at the Gemeentemuseum for the opening of ‘The Ideal Man’ show, wondering what’s expected of me. That’s it – I just have to be present. So I sip wine, pose for photos, and chat with Dutch and English art types, including a few dandies and male models.

A journalist shakes my hand.

Him: You are now one handshake away from the next president of the United States.

Me: You mean…?

I stop myself from mentioning a name, in case he’s a fan of Mr McCain. It’s not THAT foregone a conclusion, surely.

Him: I interviewed Barack Obama last week, and shook his hand. So you’re now one handshake away from Barack Obama. From now on, anyone who shakes YOUR hand is only TWO handshakes away from Barack Obama.

Me: Right. Good. Okay. Gosh. Blimey. (more Hugh Grant noises)

I once met a UK journalist who liked playing this game, working out that he was six handshakes away from Ghandi, or Adolf Hitler, or Peaches Geldof, or whoever. Cue joke: ‘You’re now one handshake away from Dave The Terminal Leper…’

I find my suit in the exhibition. It’s in the ‘Dandies’ room. The mannequin has been given a bowler hat, for some reason:

And there my suit (plus shirt, tie and hanky) will stay until October.

Other exhibits include a parade of dandy-inspired outfits by Mr Gaultier, a pair of Elvis Presley’s pyjamas (which I wish I could have tried on), a white tuxedo with tails as worn by Marlene Dietrich, and a suit from the late President Mitterand. There’s also lots of catwalk ensembles which are, as you’d expect, more Art than Fashion. I particularly like a pink costume which exposes one leg and has a horse’s head on the shoulder. Like a gay equine Zaphod Beeblebrox:

***
The ferry back is peaceful enough, though as it’s daytime there’s a lot more people on board than the night crossing. Booking a cabin isn’t compulsory, and the fare is cheaper if you don’t do so. But not by much (£13 ish). So I get one, always cherishing a room of one’s own. Or somewhere to escape.

Well, nearly escape. As we dock in Harwich, there’s a knock at my cabin door. I open it to find no one there, but note that the old lady in the cabin opposite has also opened her door. We look about together, baffled, then spy a group of Dutch teenage boys marching quickly away down the corridor, knocking on every door as they go. They’re playing Knock Down Ginger. In Dutch. More universal teens.

One of the boys in the group – a huge, rugby-ready lad – glances back at me and catches my eye. And of course it’s me that feels he has to run away. I quickly duck back inside my cabin, and lock the door.

***

My only mistake is to come back to the UK on a Sunday evening, the day of Engineering Works. At Harwich, those three dreaded words loom into view on a notice board: Rail Replacement Service.

I have to take a ludricous boneshaker of a double-decker round the winding country lanes from Harwich to Manningtree – fearing the thing might topple over at any moment. Then there’s a second coach to Witham, followed by a 30 minutes’ wait for a slow train to London. By the time I arrive at Liverpool St, it’s nearly midnight – I’ve spent nearly four hours travelling in Essex – and I’ve missed the last Tube. I forget Sunday is also the day of Tubes Finishing Earlier.

I’m not the only one to be stranded, either. There’s an undignified scramble for taxis, with people spilling out onto the street to try and grab cabs before they arrive at the taxi rank. One £25 fare later, I’m finally back in Highgate.

The Panaroma Mesdag is a gem – a huge 360-degree mural one views by standing inside an observation tower. It’s painted in 1881 by HW Mesdag, and depicts the nearby holiday resort Scheveningen, a name so hard for non-Dutch natives to pronounce that it was rumoured to be used in WWII interrogations for rooting out German spies. The Panorama is part of a small Mesdag gallery – his seascapes are equally impressive and vivid, rather like early Turners.

Then I nip over on a tram to Scheveningen itself, to compare the 1881 painting with the resort as it is today. It’s a huge and popular place – the beach seemingly endless in either direction. I walk around in a suit while surrounded by thousands of Dutch people in swimming costumes and Speedos – that’ll be me being me, then.

While in Scheveningen I wander on the double decker pier, peek inside the ornate Kurhaus’s ceiling, and coo at the seahorses and giant turtles in the Sea Life aquarium. Best of all, I discover the Beelden Aan Zee sculpture gallery, with its Tom Otterness figures in bronze outside. He has a thing for round-headed, triangle-hatted little men, inspired by fairy tales and fiction. His ‘Herring Eater’ is gigantic:

While his Moby Dick looks rather friendly and cute, even when eating people:

(Images from Wikipedia)

Inside is a touring show from the Henry Moore Institute in Leeds, on the theme of metamorphosis. It’s called ‘Against Nature’. Always a good sign. Incredible stuff: mythological figures, angels, centaurs, androgynes, humans stuck in otherworldly transitions, a man with a lace-up face (the ultimate Nike acolyte?), gooey abstract renditions of lovers melting into each other as they kiss, and Mr Epstein’s robot-like ‘Rock Drill’ creature. Except it’s not the famous bronze torso (as seen in the Tate), but a recreation of Epstein’s original 10ft-tall plaster cast, where the masked figure has a full body and rides an actual rock drill:

Language-wise, I manage okay in English – guiltily. But I do come unstuck in the Museum Of Communication, the only tourist attraction in The Hague that’s entirely in Dutch. I’m guessing the irony has already been pointed out.

Weds July 23rd to Sun 27th – to The Hague in Holland. I’m delivering a suit of mine to go on display at the Gemeentemuseum, as part of an exhibition called ‘The Ideal Man’. I’m also invited to the opening of the show. The invitation says ‘In the Presence of Dickon Edwards – Modern Dandy and British Fashion Icon.’ I’m still not tired of mentioning that.

My only other Dutch experience to date is Amsterdam, when Spearmint played the Paradiso Club – with me on guitar – eight years ago. The difference between Amsterdam and The Hague? More Serbian warlords on trial, fewer prostitutes in windows.

This week, the media seem fascinated with the unkind Mr Karadzikc’s ability to grow a big beard, then shave it off. As if there’s some kind of link between facial cleansing and ethnic cleansing. ‘Pictures – Man Has Shave!’

I’ve had a shave in The Hague too. Didn’t make the news. Must be doing it wrong.

Other general impressions about the Hague – stately, serious, expensive. A bit Bath, a bit Oxford. I’m told a Dutch satirical joke: ‘Rotterdam is where the money is made. The Hague is where the money is spent. Amsterdam is where the party is.’

The Hague’s streets have the same wide Amsterdam mesh of tram lanes and bike lanes alongside the normal traffic. One has to be so careful when walking about – I nearly always look the wrong way when crossing.

A sightseeing highlight: the beautiful Peace Palace, with its Peace Flame burning eternally and movingly in a little monument outside the gates.

Peace doesn’t quite extend to the Hague’s young people on public transport, though. Many of the tram rides I take have the requisite sulky teens on the back seat, playing MP3s of techno and hip-hop loudly through their mobile phones. The ghetto blasters of the 21st century. Whether it’s Ipswich, Camden, or The Hague, Back Seat Teens are the same everywhere. Desperate to rebel (against everyone else) yet desperate to conform (with each other). ‘Boys will be boys’. Must they?

I say this, of course, because I was never that sort of teen boy. Or at least, I like to think I wasn’t.

(I wonder what the Dutch is for ‘Oh-my-god, you’re, like, so unfair… man.’)

The Mauritshuis gallery packs the tourists in, with its famous Girl With A Pearl Earring painting by Vermeer, as in that film with Scarlett J. The gallery shop has the image on every conceivable item of merchandise: ‘Girl’ jigsaws, ‘Girl’ mousemats, ‘Girl’ wristwatches, ‘Girl’ matchboxes (dutch for matchbox = ‘luciferdoos’). Typically, my favourite paintings aren’t available as postcards: Rembrandt’s heartbreaking ‘Susanna’ and ‘Andromeda’ and Rottenhammer’s ‘Christ Descending Into Limbo’, a tiny work crammed with 16th century demons and sprites of all shapes and sizes, in the spirit of Bosch.

I also do the Escher museum – pretty much everything he did is inside, plus a floor of games based on his optical illusion works. Leaves me feeling a bit giddy afterwards.

Mum & Dad, Buckingham Palace.

At the end, there’s a dozen or so additional military honorees, who receive medals for gallantry in specific and recent events rather than long term service. Some are from Iraq, some are from Afghanistan. The very last one – and surely the most recent addition to the bill – is Staff Sergeant Douglas Leak of the Royal Engineers. He gets the Queen’s Gallantry Medal – ‘For Bravery In Dismantling A World War II Bomb In London.’ Necks crane forward: many may not recognise his name, but they know of his work. The bomb was discovered on a building site in Bethnal Green last May, and made the news. I like to think he said to Prince Charles, ‘And the funny thing is, I was whistling Kylie’s ‘What Do I Have To Do?’ while working out which wire to cut…’

Tom, Mum, DE. One of these people plays guitar for Fields Of The Nephilim.

Then it’s over. We all file outside into the courtyard with the cars. Here the honorees and their Guests queue up to be snapped by an official ceremonial photography service, though it’s optional – and incurs a fee. It now feels like I’m at  a village fete: a curiously provincial ambience, given it’s the heart of the metropolis. In our case, we decide to take our own photos, as the queues for the photo service seem to be taking forever. It’s also a hot day and we’re wilting, and there’s no bar in sight (whatever would Princess Margaret say?).

In Tom’s garden. Guess which family member didn’t feel the need to change (or remove their hat) afterwards…

Tom drives us to a pub near his place in Hertfordshire, where we meet up with his wife Vicky and her parents Rob and Georgie (Cowan), for a thoroughly pleasant champagne lunch. The pub plays vintage soul music in the background, including ‘Give Me Just A Little More Time’, by Chairmen Of The Board. Also a hit for Kylie, of course.

The coincidences go on. When I mention what I’ve been up to, Ms A, a friend who works for the Poetry Society asks ‘Did you see a poet called Debjani Chatterjee? I speak to her all the time…’

I’m reeling from it all, to be honest, but most of all I’m so proud of Mum, and so glad to go to the Palace and see her honoured in person.

I fall asleep on the train from Hemel Hempstead, the New York jet lag hitting hard. Thankfully, London is the last stop. London’s helpful that way.

Today, there’s 116 recipients. I know – I counted them all in the programme during a guiltily idle moment. I have to admit it’s a little frustrating that one doesn’t know a bit more about each person stepping up to get the medal and the chat. ‘James Bloggs, for services to the Inland Revenue’ is all you’re given. Personally, I’d have welcomed a couple of lines in the programme adding a little more colour: how long was Mr Bloggs in his job, say? Where did he live? What were his hobbies? His favourite Dannii Minogue song? Anything. A couple more sentences would make all the difference when sitting there and trying to muster exactly the same attention for the 101st recipient as one had for the 1st.

But then, Charles and his attendants have to stand there too, and keep their attention unflagging throughout, for what must be the best part of an hour and a half. I suppose his military escort must be used to standing still and attentive for hours on end (Horse Guards Parade springs to mind). But it can’t be easy finding just the right questions to ask a tax worker from Hull for 30 seconds, knowing that the exchange will remembered and retold for the rest of their life.

On top of which, he must be aware that today he’s his mother’s stunt double, and that many of the honorees will surely be a little disappointed not to get the lady on the bank notes. I get the inkling he chats just that little bit more, and more informally, than The Queen would, as if by way of compensation. And he does it 116 times in a row, with unwavering interest throughout.

Here’s what Mum says about the chat (from a piece she wrote in her local village circular):

Prince Charles expressed a real interest in quilting… I later discovered that this was not just good manners on his part: he has recently bought a house in Wales and has an antique Welsh quilt on his bed and another on the wall in the hall.

In fact, weeks later, Mum receives two letters from the Prince. One to ask if he can get copies of her books (which she duly sends), then a thank you for doing so, with the hint of a possible commission… Seems HRH is truly interested in the craft, particularly the recycling and green-friendly elements, where Mum turns spare scraps of fabric into new patchwork quilts.

Back to the ceremony. When Ms Minogue enters to get her OBE, of course, everyone perks up. This occasion is all about being recognised by the British People, Government and Crown, but some are already more recognised than others. Celebrity or not, though, Ms M stands out, in a Tinkerbelle-like dress embossed with multi-coloured glittery stars.

Though neither does she flaunt her celebrity. According to Mum, while waiting she acts like any of the other recipients in the queue – modest, gracious, pleased to be there. It’s just that there’s a gaggle of media in the courtyard outside who focus on her rather than anyone else.

Another particularly stylish recipient is Jo Malone, founder of the cosmetics and fragrance company that bears her name. When I try looking ‘Jo Malone’ up on Wikipedia, I find out it’s also the name of Parker Posey’s character in ‘The Daytrippers’. It all links.

At one end of the ballroom is a raised platform, where the investiture ceremony takes place. Behind us, on a high balcony, is a chamber orchestra playing classical pieces for the entire duration. We’re in what I suppose is the main stalls, though some of the other guests are seated in raised rows either side. And oh look – to our right there’s Kylie Minogue’s sister, Dannii, with Mum and Dad Minogue.

It’s only once you arrive on the day that you find out whether it’s the Queen who’ll be giving out the awards, or whether it’ll be Prince Charles, who covers for her. Today it turns out to be the latter case. Which suits many of the media fine, as they later get to report Ms Minogue receiving her OBE with the headline ‘The Prince And The Showgirl.’

Charles arrives at the dais escorted by a couple of sworded-up Ghurkhas and a handful of Yeomen Of The Guard, in their ornate flat hats, red tunics and stockings. ‘Beefeaters,’ says Mum later. I correct her, unable to resist an excuse for pedantry. I tell her that Beefeaters are actually the ones who look after the Tower Of London, also known as Yeomen Warders. The Yeomen of the Guard, are a separate gang who act as royal bodyguards, distinguished from Beefeaters by their red cross-belts. I know this because I watch ‘Q.I.’ and live alone. I am wretched.

The investiture begins. One by one, the recipients enter from a room off to the left, have their name announced by a miked-up black-suited staffer who stands at a lectern, then step up to the Prince to be given their medal (or be knighted with a sword – there’s a single Sir being dubbed today). Then the Prince chats to them for thirty seconds or so, before they exit off to the right. Finally, they re-enter the ballroom discreetly from the back, and take a seat for the rest of the ceremony.

In fact, the medal Prince Charles gives them is a lightweight replica, not the actual medal. He places it on a hook that’s been pinned to the recipient’s clothes in advance, while they queue up. So there’s never any chance of the Prince fumbling about with clasps and pins. When the honorees exit to the room at the side, the real MBE is waiting for them in a presentation box. More things I’ve learned, then.

The awards are given out in order of rank downwards, so the knighthoods come before the OBEs and MBEs. Each rank is then divided up into military or civilians, with military going first. And within those divisions, the women go before the men, in alphabetical order of surname. Thus Mum finds herself with the other female civilian MBEs, lined up immediately after Ms Debjani Chatterjee, a poet from Sheffield. They chat while waiting backstage, as it were – Mum tells me Ms C is charming company.

We’re travelling as a strictly un-extended family. Recipients are allowed to bring three guests, so it’s Dad, brother Tom and me. Easily done. I wonder what happens to honorees with larger families – do they draw lots, toss a coin, or argue over a lifetime of point scoring about just who’s been emotionally closer or more supportive to the one getting the medal (‘You’ve never been there for Cousin Eustace like I have’)? Are family tensions thus exposed, maybe even brought to a head?

I also muse on just how we’re meant to behave. As it is, The Edwards family rarely does things in the original four-piece line-up, not since I left home circa 1990. I think of that wonderful line in ‘Little Miss Sunshine’: ‘Off we go! Everyone pretend to be normal!’. I also think of ‘The Daytrippers’, a lesser known (but I think superior) movie along the same lines: a family of slightly unusual characters getting in a car and going off together.

But how IS a family meant to act as a one-off travelling unit, particularly when the sons are grown up? Particularly when one son is a louche bohemian and bedsit loner who writes a decade-old web diary, while the other is happily married, employed, has a house, and rarely travels without his wife. Though Tom does have an unconventional job: he currently plays guitar for Fields Of The Nephilim. Full-time, now.

Tom’s just come back from a sold-out gig at Shepherd’s Bush Empire and a tour in Finland. I’ve just come back from escorting Shane MacGowan from Dublin to New York and back. And Dad’s just come back from a rather less fun trip: he was rushed to hospital after suddenly contracting a dysentery-like virus, suspected to be one of the so-called ‘superbugs’.

But all three Edwards Men have made it to be here. Just. The London traffic threatens to make us miss out at the last hurdle, when we endure a nerve-wracking half-hour in a gridlocked Bloomsbury.

We make it to the Mall, a little late but not too late. We show our passes and drive in past the crowds of tourists and several gates manned by police – a nice feeling – into an inner courtyard. Tom is told by security to leave his car unlocked, with his keys visible on the dashboard. There’s armed officers standing guard, guns on view. It’s fair to say Tom’s not worried about his car being stolen.

Inside the Palace, Mum is led off with the other recipients, while the Guests – me, Tom and Dad – have to walk down a hall and take our seats in a ballroom. THE ballroom as it turns out. Weeks later while staying in the Hague, I idly flick through the hotel room TV channels to catch a news report on BBC World. Then I see the ballroom again. Mum’s MBE ballroom. The Palace is just about to open it to the public for the first time, as part of its guided tour. So Mum’s investiture ceremony is one of the last before this milestone in the room’s history.

‘We do this sort of thing so well,’ says Dad, as we gaze around at the high ceilings and huge paintings. But unlike the other historical mansions I’ve visited – and in the case of Kenwood have worked in – Buckingham has an air of practicality and use. It’s ornate and plush, of course, but there’s the feeling of business (and indeed, busyness) afoot. Investitures, banquets, visiting dignitaries and so on – it’s all work. A working palace.

2,500 words on one morning in July. And that’s after I took out a long rant about the Honours system per se. Just as well. Here we go. In morsels.

***

It’s last November, and among Mum’s post is an envelope marked ’10 Downing Street’. Her first thought is that it contains a parking fine.

Now it’s Thursday July 3rd, and the family is off to Buckingham Palace for Mum’s investiture.

The letter was the offer of an MBE in the New Year’s Honours List. MBE as in Member Of The British Empire, or to give it its full title, Member Of The Most Excellent Order Of The British Empire (Civil Division). One thing I also learn from the ceremony is that OBE – the next one up which Kylie gets in the same queue – is not ‘Order Of The British Empire’. It’s OFFICER of the Order Of The British Empire.

In Mum’s case, the reason was ‘for services to the craft of Quilt Making’. It turns out that a group of Mum’s quilting students had been writing to Downing St for years to secure her an honour, unbeknownst to her. She’s only the second quilt maker ever to be honoured, the first one being the Durham quilter Amy Emms, honoured in 1984. Or as she signed herself in letters ever afterwards, ‘Mrs Emms, MBE.’

Alan Bennett said that having a knighthood in his case would feel like ‘having to wear a suit every day of one’s life’. Not an excuse I can entirely sympathise with. But then, not everyone likes wearing suits as much as I do.

An hour before I’m collected, I’m on the phone to Tom.

Me: I’m deciding which suit to wear. White or pinstriped might pull focus, I think. Plain black okay, do you think?

Tom: Dickon, I don’t have that problem. I’m just wearing… My Suit.

Dad and Tom don’t usually wear suits. Mum doesn’t usually wear a hat. The one she sports today is borrowed, and even that is a tasteful half-hat affair pinned to her bob haircut  – she’s hardly enrolling for the Ascot Flying Saucer Brigade. So the rest of the family are Dressed Up. I’m just dressed.

***

The original investiture date clashed with one of Mum’s teaching engagements abroad. No problem, said The Palace, and simply offered her a different ceremony later in the year. I didn’t know they could do that, but this turns out to be very much the impression I take away about the staff at Buck House: unexpectedly down-to-earth, friendly, helpful, and making Mum and the rest of us feel like we’re the important ones, not them.

That equerry in the film ‘The Queen’, the one who sternly reminds Tony Blair that HMQ must be addressed as ‘Ma’am’ – to rhyme with ‘ham’ and NOT with ‘farm’ -  is, I’m happy to confirm, closer to fiction than fact. The real Palace staff we meet are perfectly lovely. They inform you of the archaic protocol, certainly, but without condescension of any sort.

***

I’ve just returned from New York, where I was shocked to have to show my passport in order to get into bars on the Lower East Side. Thank God things aren’t like that in London, I say to myself the night before, as I file the thing away in my Drawer Of Important Things.

The first thing Mum says to me as I get in the car the next morning is, ‘Have you got your passport?’ Turns out you need it for Buckingham Palace: they’re rather big on security. Funny that. I rush back inside.

***