I felt so awful I almost prayed that we would crash

This is about life up high. Two weeks ago The Spectator had that rapscallion and mischief-maker Peter McKay writing about how great it is to pilot a plane. (He’s taking lessons and has flown solo.) I’ve always been told that riding a motorcycle and piloting a plane are about the same, and McKay is a motorcyclist. His build, looks and accent are far more suited to riding on two wheels than to piloting a plane (that role is more one for a Cary Grant type). But I am being snobby and writing like McKay — cattily.

Reading about flying brought back pleasant memories, but also a tragic one. When my little girl was 19 and at UCLA (that’s a university in Los Angeles, for any of you unfamiliar with places of higher learning), she informed her mother and me that she wanted to become a pilot. I lost my temper and threatened to cut her off for life, but she went ahead, ignoring my wishes as she always has and always will. Then the big day came for her to fly solo and the mother of my children took my son and flew to El Lay to witness the great event. I met with a Colombian chap up in the Bronx and took to my bed. Everything went fine until, after about 20 minutes, the time came for my daughter to land. As she made her approach, she saw her mother jumping up and down like a crazed teenager in front of Elvis, so she gunned her two-seater and took off again. My son was so embarrassed that he, too, ran off.

Lolly got her certificate and all that, and I was happy she did because coming back to Gstaad from Saint-Tropez about 15 years ago on a private charter I noticed that the pilot was overweight, wheezing and sweating profusely.