A Plinth Among Men: One monarch's hour in One&Other

Even after I'd chatted briefly to one of the organisers on the phone, in a friendly and completely non-call-centreish fashion, it surprised me how friendly and smiley the folks on duty in Trafalgar Square's One and Other hospitality centre were, particularly at 4am on a Friday morning. Having parked across the way and wandered over the road, I was immediately greeted amiably by the security man outside who quipped about my sword belt and the large number of metal buttons screwing up the metal detector.

Then, once inside and introduced as "the four o'clock" I was taken through a few basic questions, offered tea, coffee or water (in mugs, not plastic cups, as my mother enthused afterwards) while officials bustled around the portacabin grinning with what seemed like practically orgasmic job satisfaction.

When I'd done me ablutions and the lady in red (who from a distance bore a striking resemblance to Mia Wallace) before me had been seen onto the plinth to dance, I was invited into the adjoining room for my interview. Each participant (or "plinther") is interviewed briefly about things like, uh, where they heard about the project (thanks, Catharine Watts and Facebook!) and why they plan to do what they're going to do on the plinth.

Of course, with less than an hour to go before I got up there, dressed smartly in my 'Kinging Uniform' and holding a nice looking Old Rectorian flag, I still had absolutely no idea what else I'd be doing up there. Thankfully I was jittery and excitable enough from the obscene quantities of coffee I'd ingested before setting off into the city that I had plenty to say, mainly about Old Rectoryland.

Not that I managed to say anything remotely true or interesting: it's long been known that one of the main reasons for the nation's existence is the comment it makes on the legitimacy of nationhood, and the essentially violent way in which governments and constitutions are forced upon their residents. Needless to say I forgot all of my existential, unconformist, artistic justifications and instead told her "well, it's cheaper than a model railway..."

Then I had my picture taken in the studio and finally sat around for fifteen minutes, only a little nervous and determined to take the thing in my stride, waiting for my turn in the bucket of the JCB. Wearing a long wooden scabbard as I was, it was impossible to sit anywhere but the arm of the sofa while my belatedly arrived parents glanced around by my side and I answered occasional questions about university and things from the lovely blonde lady whose dad was a Routemaster busdriver.

My time came, eventually, to be driven across the square by a bearded chap, and into the bucket I got, nearly forgetting my flag. Thankfully Mum, Dad, and cousin Jez (who'd arrived minutes before on the night-bus from Clapham) were around for...um...moral support and making sure I was too inhibited to try shouting anything controversial.

Once deposited on the plinth itself, I found time went quite slowly. I walked up and down, waving or holding the flag, occupying myself by thinking and trying to aim it into the light and changeable breeze that fluttered across the waters of the silent fountain below. I avoided the accusing stare of the illuminated clock opposite, and concentrated on being as aesthetically pleasing and statuesque as possible. It was pitch black when I went up (except for the blinding lights) and I found it more pleasing to measure the passage of time by checking occasionally how clearly I could make out the outline of Nelson in the sky.

Occasionally I thought of something pretentious, and said it quietly into the mike (although I was being honest when I commented on the deep conversations I sparked among the few onlookers not staring into a can of white lightning, or doing somersaults in roller blades down the steps of the National Gallery.

Disappointingly, my parents handed out very few leaflets (which were their own idea) and I've only had 98 hits on OldRectoryland.com the whole weekend. This after optimistic speculation about whether I ought to set up a No. 10 petition for people to sign, asking for recognition of our autonomy. Nor did I have any particularly deep thoughts up there, other than appreciating the bright pink sunrise over St Martin-in-the-Fields, and the wheel-based acrobatics of the ten year olds. I'm a person who does not get bored easily, perfectly happy standing in silence for any length of time, so this was neither any great hardship nor any great opportunity.

One of 2,400 plinthers between now and October, I did not feel particularly unique either, except in the sense that, human consciousness being what it is, I had a more solipsistic hour than usual. The sense of remoteness and separation, indeed of being 'put on a pedestal' gave the unavoidable sensation that I was the one spectator, looking over a world of performers. Or at least a square of poorly trained clowns. On the way down I wished I could remember Jacque's speech from As You Like It, but I only got as far as "one man in his time plays many parts" without remembering how "struts his hour upon the stage" (appropriate, eh?) fitted in exactly.

I confined myself, in the end, to a final fist-thrust and bellow of "Free Lindisfaras!" in answer to my gathered Irish supporters before I was lowered sedately to the ground, replaced by an odd woman on a global warming ticket (we didn't know if she was being serious or joking when she started talking about "my elves").

Then there was a brief debrief, I signed the visitors book, and we wandered off, down the Strand, into the sunrise.

King Dominic's interview and photographs will be deposited in the Wellcome Trust archives, along with footage of his hour-long vigil.