In the Easter holidays, plus two school days, for which his mother will be fined or, as a serial offender, she will be summoned to appear in court (not that she’s bothered, bless her), I took grandson Oscar to Provence for a week. The flights cost us nothing because a neighbour passed on his air miles to us, plus an upgrade to Club Europe, which is business class. Grandad was excited about the upgrade because it would enable Oscar to see how the other half lived, and perhaps make his own judgment about whether a slightly wider seat on a plane was worth trying harder at school for. The night before the flight we stayed at a hotel. ‘Why aren’t you at school?’ said the receptionist to Oscar.
Our Club Europe tickets entitled us to use the business lounge. Two and a half hours before departure we showed our boarding passes at the desk. We were both wearing Lionel Messi Adidas football boots. Oscar’s were gold, mine were fluorescent green with red arrows. But it didn’t seem to matter and we were admitted with an indulgent smile, suggesting a fine respect for equality among the elite.
I was so hungry I could have eaten a vegetable. Oscar and I cruised the hot and cold buffet marvelling at the variety and quality of the free food and drink. I piled two plates high with cake, bacon, sweet corn and strawberries. Oscar modestly selected a mini-croissant. The vast quantities of free food seemed to embarrass him. ‘What about a piece of Grace, your cake?’ I said.
The few other occupants of the lounge sat around on nests of low comfortable-looking couches and chairs. A disabled woman from southeast Asia limped between them with a tray and a dishcloth.
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