Let’s show Macron we mean business and lend France the Crown Jewels in return for the Bayeux Tapestry

Just to be picky, may I point out right now that it’s not actually a tapestry, it’s a piece of embroidery, because its not woven, it’s sewn onto already existing cloth

A section of the Bayeux Tapestry, which depicts the Norman Conquest of England and the Battle of Hastings (Getty Images)

For some reason I always assumed I’d seen the Bayeux Tapestry, but like a lot of things in my life – like the time my first novel got optioned by Stephen Spielberg – it seems I’ve fictionalised the entire event.

Because, despite having vivid memories of a teenage school trip to see the thing, it’s not physically possible. For starters, the tapestry hasn’t set stitch outside France for the past 900 years and my all girls grammar school would never have taken a load of sexually precocious fifteen year olds over to Normandy where we’d have done our utmost to get drunk and pregnant.

“No”, an old school mate confirmed, “We didn’t ever go to France but we did go to Hadrian’s Wall.”

The image of the tapestry is instantly familiar though. Just to be picky, may I point out right now that it’s not actually a tapestry, it’s a piece of embroidery, because its not woven, it’s sewn onto already existing cloth.

This is the difference between tapestry and embroidery, a fact I was told in no uncertain terms a few years ago when I mistakenly referred to some wall hangings in a National Trust property as “gorgeous tapestries”. At this point an elderly volunteer overheard my comment and proceeded to put me right, snarling as she finished her lecture, “When will you people learn?”

Apart from not being a tapestry, it’s also pretty moth eaten with evidence of darning, but even so, apart from that grubby Turin shroud, it’s probably the most famous piece of fabric in the world and I think it’s nice of Macron to lend it us.

At the moment no one knows where we’re going to display it. Personally I’d like it to do a tour of church halls up and down the country so that members of the WI could pore over it and slag off the craftsmanship.

Wherever it ends up, as an amateur cross-stitch kit enthusiast and a fan of all things craft, I shall be in that queue, as long as it’s not going to be more than a twenty minute wait, obviously – I don’t want my ankles swelling up.

Which leaves us with the other dilemma – what shall we lend France in return? Listen, as a girl who grew up in the pre-Primark years and therefore possessing a pretty limited wardrobe, I spent most of the seventies lending and borrowing to and from mates. I know the rules – your blue corduroy skirt for my cheese cloth peasant blouse.

This time however, the stakes are higher than even a pair of Dolcis platforms and I reckon whatever we lend them has to be better than 70 metres of cloth depicting a battle in which they won.

So, I suggest we lend them the crown jewels. Yeah, beat that France – your tatty old cloth for our shiny baubles. Feast your eyes, then give them back.

According to the BBC programme about the Coronation, when the crown jewels were brought to the Palace on the eve of the Coronation, 14 yeoman of the guard, each equipped with revolvers containing twelve rounds of ammunition, were deployed to keep watch all night. God, there was a potential heist, if ever there was one.

What struck me about this programme was the way the Queen viewed her crowns (the Coronation one and the every day one). Each contain precious stones that belonged to various ancestors, and the way she picked out her favourite stones reminded me of when I was little and my sister and I were allowed to look through our nanna’s cream leather jewellery box.

Ok, so it didn’t exactly contain the Black Prince Ruby, and let’s face it, no one’s going to queue up to see an enamel brooch in the shape of a cockerel. But history touches us all and one woman’s 530 carat diamond is another woman’s best diamante.

The neat thing about sending the crown jewels in return for the 70 metres of tatty embroidered cloth is that they both involve Edward the Confessor, the eleventh century regal ditherer who promised his crown to two blokes. It was promised to an Englishman called Harold and a Frenchman called William – and in doing so, Edward was essentially to blame for the whole battle of Hastings shebang.

On the Bayeux tapestry he is depicted as a little fella sewn in wool sitting on a throne, while amongst the crown jewels he is represented by a whopping sapphire that was allegedly prized from his cold, dead ring finger and eventually set into the imperial state crown, once the monarchy was restored to Britain in 1660.

History is in everything, isn’t it? It’s in bits of material, in orbs, sceptres and crowns, and it’s even tucked away in your nanna’s hankie drawer – the only difference being that some stories are much bigger than others.