This was Betty Ceausescu, standing on the podium before her beloved subjects, her eyes flashing from side to side in bewilderment, baffled that the old routines and protocols didn't seem to working any more. Prince Philip's peck on her cheek came across as not so much a sign of affection as a farewell gesture before the tumbrils started rolling. If this had been Romania at the beginning of the 1990s instead of Britain at the end, the bank holiday bloodsports might have been a bit more exciting than foxhunting.

Well, that's how it appeared to me anyway. A relic of the ancien regime toasts the coming of the 21st century with a style that never quite made it into the 20th. And dear Tony by her side, looking forward to a future for the many while keeping one foot planted firmly in the past of a few.

What is it about the monarchy that, at the dawning of a new millenium, still prevents us from ridding ourselves of one of the most obvious bastions of inequality, inherited wealth and privilege? Why is it, when everything from the water that we drink to the skies above our heads is being privatised and subjected to the rigours of the market, this one family is swathed in subsidy, servility and respect?

It isn't just that Labour in government has never dared to touch the billions locked up in this private estate. The argument that there are bigger issues on which to court controversy and change might hold water were it not for the fact that Wor Tony has declared himself one of the Windsors' biggest fans. It is not, for him, a matter of setting aside principle for the pragmatism of the possible. Tony's a monarchist; he's said so himself.

A monarchist, in 2000? A leader of a "young country", who sees himself in the vanguard of a new meritocracy, in which everyone has an equal opportunity for betterment? Some contradiction there, surely?

Since abolition seems to be off the agenda, for now at any rate, perhaps the tumbrils must wait. But that doesn't mean that we must accept everything tomorrow as it is today. Could we not at least require that the same market disciplines be applied to the Windsors as have been imposed on our public services? Put the contract out to tender, send the inspectors in to check performance, sell shares in the institution and open the castles and palaces to the private sector?

I seem to remember Mo Mowlam, in one of her more daring moments a few years ago, coming up with the idea of opening Buckingham Palace to the public. This is about as bold as it gets in the Labour Party these days -- but did she really have in mind a few weeks in the tourist season, with the takings being kept for the royal coffers? The suggestion, floated before Christmas, that we might tear down the Palace walls and open up the gardens as a new London park was made about as welcome by the Labour leadership as a private member's bill from Ken Livingstone. But why stop with Buckingham Palace? One of the few gaps on the Thames National Trail, from the river's source to the sea, is still the mile or so of footpath at Windsor purloined by Queen Victoria because she didn't want the plebs spoiling her view during her brief sojourns at the castle. The justification given these days is security rather than the divine right of queens, but the new excuse is no less objectionable than the old.

Then there are all those works of art, jewels and other treasures that never see the light of day in the private royal collections. Kept in trust for the nation, did I hear someone argue? Well, since the nation never sees the things, why not auction them off to a private collector on condition that they are put on display for a certain number of months every year?

I'm told, although I've not yet experienced the pleasure of going there myself, that when you've worked your way through the digestive organs in the Body Zone at the Dome, you are greeted by a branch of McDonald's. How much might they pay to do a tasteful version of the same at Balmoral?

If there's a touch of churlishness in my remarks about a confused old woman earlier in this column, I apologise for it now. It's just that I spent a little time at the end of the last millenium with another elderly woman who was also a little confused. What she didn't understand was why, under our new Labour government, her pension last year had risen by just 75p a week. Mind you, at least she knew how to sing Auld Lang Syne.