Balmoral Castle, Scottish Highlands

I put one hand over my right eye and squinted till I could just make out the silhouette of the castle through the trees. There was absolutely no ambient light whatsoever. This was the third year that I had worked in Balmoral while the Queen and the Royal family enjoyed their annual Scottish retreat. During the day, it was like working on a Disney set. The sun was shining, deer were prancing across the lawn, salmon were leaping upstream and swallows were singing in the trees. As the sun began to set behind the hills, the deer fled into the forest and the swallows fell deathly silent, it had a slightly more menacing feel to it. Less Bambi, more Evil Dead.

I had been standing in the Forest of Death and Blood for at least an hour. I was tired, bored to tears and to be perfectly honest, slightly terrified. Fortunately, I’d been issued with a pair of night vision goggles to enable me to see the full horror of whatever was lurking in the woods. I was a nervous wreck. Every sound, every leaf rustling became a hairy, salivating, gnarly-toothed, dog-zombie coming to drag me into the forest by my entrails.

This is ridiculous!

Why was I was standing in a Scottish wood in the dead of night freezing my arse off, while the Queen and her guests were drinking Chateau Latife by an open fire and all my mates were out clubbing in Soho? If I had followed the original plan, I’d be sunning myself on an Australian beach by now, but life had taken a slight detour.

I took solace from the fact that the Queen could sleep well knowing I was standing on the other side of the castle wall, ready and willing to protect her from whomever would seek to do her harm.

I heard a rustling in the leaves behind me and instinctively jumped onto the nearest tree stump. I looked down through my goggles only to see a bright green field mouse scurrying off into the woods.

For crying out loud!

Whose idea was it to post armed London police officers in Scottish woods at night? We’re just not used to wildlife. It’s only a matter of time before a poor unsuspecting Corgi gets a magazine emptied into him by a nervous London bobby.

Reload!

Try explaining that to the Queen.

My phone started vibrating in my pocket and I almost un-holstered my Glock.

For god's sake...

It was a text from my mate James.

I quickly put my phone away and picked up the goggles. The portico doors opened and nine bright green, furry ankle biters came bounding out of the house.

Here they come. The precocious Royal mutts!

They were on me in an instant, sniffing, pissing and barking at my feet. In the three years I had been working at Buckingham Palace, I had never had a single positive experience with any of the yappy little creatures. I hated them all. They are the most aloof, superior, self-important, crap wherever they like hounds, I have ever come across. I offered one of them a treat one day and it actually turned its’ over privileged nose up at me and walked away.

Oh, I’m not worthy…

I tried to shake the feeling of insecurity washing over me but I could barely make eye contact with anyone for the rest of the day. Never in my life had a dog made me feel inferior, till then. They’re all frequent flyers with jet set attitudes. If you ever bump into them in the First Class lounge at Heathrow, they will look down on you, and I promise, you will feel small.

I turned my torch down at my leg to see one of the Corgis sniffing at my feet.

“Piss off you little mutt!” I shooed him away with the toe of my boot. It immediately started barking and ran off into the forest of Death and Blood.

And don’t come back…

“Officer? Where is my officer?”

The Queen was standing about twenty metres away swinging her ten million candle power torch across the lawn.

“I’m over here your Majesty.” I replied and shone my torch at the ground by my feet.

“Ah, there you are.” she said and immediately pointed the torch right in my newly adjusted eyes.

JESUS MARY MOTHER OF GOD!

I covered my now watering eyes and started sneezing uncontrollably.

“Are you alright Officer?”

I think my eyes are bleeding!

"Sorry, yes thank you Ma’am. It’s just... bright light."

Did you just say, bright light to the Queen of England?

“Yes, well, keep warm officer. The temperature has dropped somewhat. Goodnight.”

“Thank you Ma’am. Goodnight.” I replied.

How embarrassing…

I watched as the Queen headed back to the house swinging her torch and shouting each of the dog’s names in turn. She wasn’t above swearing at them if they took their time. I liked that. It made her seem more human, down to earth.

“Come on Willow, move your bloody arse!” The missing Corgi ran out of the forest, stopped at my feet, barked and ran back towards the house.

“Go on you posh little snob!” I said under my breath and flicked my boot at him.

That was their last walk of the night. I heard the portico doors being locked, so I wandered over to the house. I caught sight of my reflection in a window.

You look ridiculous!

I was wearing a Metropolitan Police uniform and I was carrying a Heckler and Koch MP5 carbine semi-automatic rifle, a Glock, 80 rounds of ammunition and a pair of night vision goggles.

Do you think you’re in Mission Impossible?

I looked for all intents and purposes to be an actual police officer. Truth be known, I never actually wanted to be a police officer and I don't think I've ever been particularly good at it.

You are a complete fraud.

I was due to head back to London the following day but I didn’t want to go home. I took up my post near the castle and stared out into the Scottish night sky as the mist rolled in off the hills.

Really? Rolling mist now?

This night shift was panning out like a B-list horror movie. I planted my back firmly against the castle wall and kept my rifle pointed at the scary fog. I’d have felt safer with a crucifix and some holy water.

I am not getting paid enough for this...

I got myself as comfortable as possible under the portico. I now had the rest of the night to think, and think and think.

By morning I had come to the conclusion that 2005 had been a completely shit year. Everyone has them, even the Queen, only when the Queen has a shit year, it’s called an Annus Horribilis.

Yes, 2005 had definitely been my Annus Horribilis.

How did everything get in such a mess?