Slow Life | 7 March 2009

Who knows when the sunshine of the sublime will pop out, which cloud the next wonderful thing is hiding behind? It’s rarely where I think it’s going to be. No. Inspiration never comes when it’s expected. I took Concorde once, expecting an unforgettably seamless, gentle hover in the stratosphere, a finely balanced tête-a-tête with luxury itself. Something really, you know, classy. You know what? It was just like getting on a cross-Channel ferry: great in all kinds of ways but not in the least bit chic or sophisticated. It was raucous, as bling as a billionaire’s barbecue. Everyone was overexcited: grinning and taking photos and saying things such as, ‘I can’t believe it. It hasn’t sunk in yet’, and getting boozy; nearly all were tourists and there was a couple of trapped, bored famous people. Very much like the Brits, in fact. I love the dear old Brits, but it’s not in the least bit posh.