An elegy for Concorde, the most beautiful airliner of all time, that died aged 27

The Concorde experience, a fleeting indulgence in luxurious grandiosity, began each day with circumvention of the hugger-mugger of the hoi polloi at Heathrow. In the tranquillity of the exclusive Concorde departure lounge, insulated against the vulgar cacophony of the rest of the terminal building, elite passengers, only 100 at a time, while awaiting the call to the aircraft, were able to sip gratis buck’s fizz and make gratis unlimited international telephone calls.

On my three Concorde trips, one from London to New York and two to Washington, I was impressed by the rich variety and subliminal sameness of my travelling companions, the modish accoutrements of haute couture and the blasé cool of genuine or simulated cosmopolitanism. There was a fragrance of affluence and celebrity, hints of high ranks in diplomacy, industry and commerce and entertainment, a vision of red carpets and substantial tax deductions. When we entered the intimate confinement of the narrow, tubular fuselage, I noticed that the legroom between the seats was a good deal more extensive than what I was accustomed to.