There's nothing particularly special about the events that follow. But they are, nonetheless, a commentary for our times. I was at Barcelona airport a few days ago, booked on the Debonair 18.30 flight to Luton. I am there with 75 minutes to go. A long, desultory queue already protrudes across the departure hall liked a doped boa constrictor.
Babies snivel in their pushchairs.
Dehydrated girls, complaining of the exigencies of the night before, totter to the drinks machine and the loo in alternating waves. The queue barely moves. It mostly shuffles forward on its bottom across the marbled floor. By 17.48, two things are clear. The Debonair checking desk marked Business Class has no reality.