Top hat and tales from our reporter at Buckingham Palace garden party

It still feels like a bit of a dream, except I’ve got the swish designer hat – hand-made by Luton milliner Philip Wright – and some equally stunning photographs to prove it.

I was there as a working journalist, a member of the regional press mingling with the 8,000 guests invited for their contribution to charity or the community.

And I’m still walking on cloud nine, reliving every fabulous moment, from saying “Buckingham Palace, please” to the cabbie to getting my first glimpse of those glorious gardens. It was absolutely surreal, the experience of a lifetime.

And you could tell most of the (mainly) exquisitely outfitted guests felt the same. In spite of the uniforms, medals and mayoral chains, there was an air of awe and expectation as we waited for the Royal party to appear on the terrace.

The band struck up the national anthem and there they were – the Queen, looking smaller and more stooped than she does on television, with Prince Philip a jaunty figure by her side, belying his 90 years. They were flanked by other members of the family ‘Firm’ – Prince and Princess Michael of Kent and Princess Alexandra, the Hon Lady Ogilvy.

As they wended their way to the royal tea tent, the crowds were literally hundreds deep. Oh for a giraffe gene bolted into my DNA!

Garden party veterans headed straight for the giant tea tent – reputedly the biggest in Britain – where they indulged in wafer-thin cucumber sandwiches, smoked salmon blinis and the most mouthwatering selection of mini cakes I’ve ever seen, including tiny passion fruit tarts and small squares of chocolate torte topped with edible gold crowns.

To drink: Tea, iced coffee and apple juice, presumably from the monarch’s Sandringham estate.

The Irish Guards Band and the band of the Royal Regiment of Scotland took it in turns to play medleys from My Fair Lady, James Bond and the Beatles.

Guests drifted round the gardens, admiring the roses, the statues and the immense urn in front of a Grecian summerhouse. There was a clique of purple-clad clerics, Africans in exotic outfits with colourful turbans and Arabs in white flowing robes.

And in among the elegant women in picture hats and designer dresses were some extraordinary sights, ranging from ghastly inappropriate ball gowns to shockingly micro minis.

And the shoes! Pinched expressions revealed that vertiginous strappy platforms had not been a happy choice.

As for the palace portaloos – clean, unremarkable and with high-powered hand-driers.

Six o’clock and the myriads of guests were making their way out. Many, like me, still pinching themselves that they’d been part of the great and the good for that brief moment in time.