Because my name is Elizabeth, I am supposed to be able to get free afternoon teas all over the place.

None has yet been forthcoming but it is not the first time I have felt pleased that I have the same name as our Queen.

It’s a good name. Versatile. To work colleagues I am Liz, to my oldest friends and family I am Lizzy, at the doctor’s I am Elizabeth and to my grandfather I was his beloved Lilibet, just like our Queen.

I always liked the fact that unlike her father, Queen Elizabeth II insisted on being crowned under her given name, rather than being given another one for queenish purposes.

George VI, aka Bertie, didn’t really want to be King anyway, having been lumbered with it after his errant brother ran off with Mrs Simpson, so perhaps he preferred the distance between his real self and the role of monarch that an official name allowed him.

But that wasn’t the course for our Elizabeth.

She was herself then and she remains so after a remarkable 70 years.

Surrounded as I am by republicans in my personal life, I am not one, although I have dallied with the concept in the past.

I can’t see any other world leader around today who can touch her. She has dignity, decency and steadiness and despite many troubled times, particularly the personal ones, I doubt she has ever made a single British person look at their head of state’s behaviour and feel ashamed.

Quite the reverse actually. I feel proud to see a woman up there. Proud to see someone who, despite her great age, continues to give her best; to believe in public service; to quite simply be there, upholding values that now seem a little old hat but which we all wish still mattered more.

I regret that I have never met her, particularly because I have many friends who have, including my best friend in America who was surprised that I thought it was such a big deal.

‘Doesn’t every British person get to meet her?’ she said.

‘Well, no,’ I replied, ‘that might take her quite a while.’

I’m not planning a big Jubilee do or anything but I shall be tipping my hat to her over the Platinum weekend, hoping that she is somewhere getting a free afternoon tea of her own.

Because over the years, as I have watched her and particularly when I saw her sitting alone at St George’s chapel when she said goodbye to her beloved husband last year, I have realised that I actually love her. Not just because of what she represents or because she has always been there, but because of her.

I doubt the continued affection of a random, unimportant Elizabeth will mean very much to her but I imagine there will be times over the next few weeks when the thought of being a random, unimportant Elizabeth will appeal.

She’ll never be that though, will she?

And how lucky we have been that she never was.

Dog poo troubles

Just a short note to thank all the readers who wrote to me about my dog poo troubles with my impossible spaniel, Herbie.

I have taken up the suggestion of a reader called Wendy who suggested a belt – I find my running belt has pockets just the right size for poo bags and enables me to use both hands because I can clip him on while I do the deed.

Thank you, Wendy, and all the others who wrote in. Poogate continues in a nearby wood where someone has taken to leaving replete poo bags beside the path, leading to a number of angry posters on a tree from someone clearly incensed by this.

I feel their pain. What is the point of going to the considerable trouble of picking up the mess if you don’t put it in one of the nearby bins?

Thoughts on an email to liz.nice@archant.co.uk as I continue to try to fathom this new poobag world.