From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 163)

Today I had occasion to pass by Buckingham Palace, the King’s official London residence. I cannot help but reflect that it looks more like a wedding cake than ever. Like almost all of the bigger and older residences in the country, it’s in a state of permanent expansion.

I don’t like this trend. I recall one house party where I entered into a medieval hallway. I was then shown through to a room in the Queen Anne wing that had lots of large windows, as was befitting of the period. Now, while such large windows do let in a lot of light, but they also let out a lot of warmth. The only respite from this is the huge accompanying fireplaces which, typically, either have a pitiful fire in them, or a raging inferno.

On this particular visit I’d indulged my romantic nature and accepted an invitation from a very boring chap. I’d quite determined that I was going to have a weekend filled with medieval adventure; jousting (albeit verbally) and courtly love (several of the ladies present were eager for my attention). But, on the whole, the mishmash of architectural styles and period furnishing from colliding eras unsettled me greatly. There’s nothing quite so disturbing to a cultured gentleman’s digestion than the sight of Louis XIV style furniture in a medieval hall. The owner, a man seriously lacking in any kind of personality, had clearly decided to be eccentric instead.  I ended up accepting the first amorous advance I encountered, merely to get away from the hideous Ormolu clock in my own bedchamber.  This proved to be an overwhelming disappointment.  She had a complete lack of literally inclinations and declared proudly to me - mid congress - that she’d yet to open a book this year, and that a library in a house was a waste of a good room (it quite put me off my stride).

I was brought up in a castle, or rather, as brought up as any child of my era was. I spent my youngest years, and subsequent school holidays, there. Thick walls, the most determined of draughts (which always seemed to find a way through the smallest of gaps), the delight of a roaring fire, and morning washing-up water ice-cold and invigorating. Although the plumbing, originally non-existent, had been updated, the castle was otherwise well maintained, but not significantly expanded or modified. It’s one of the few things - the very few things - my father and I agree on. The soul and character of the family home remains largely unchanged from how it originally was, and where there have been additions, they’re reserved, and in the same style. It’s a fortress of a place, and I have fondness for it.

Fundamentally, a man’s seat, or his family’s seat, should be like our proud country, not afraid to be bold, but without being brash, and of a style that reflects of our noble British heritage. The King really should move back to Windsor Castle, a place of real grandeur. I’ve an uncanny feeling that his descendants will not take so kindly to living in Buckingham Palace.