Flying home from Bahrain Karen and I are sitting about eight feet apart, but the curtain that divides us may as well be made of iron. Yes, she’s in Business Class (at the taxpayer’s expense) and I’m in with the chickens, goats, and the other skinflints who are travelling on Air Miles. Every now and then she deigns to come back and visit me, swinging the curtain aside with a newly-refilled champagne glass, caviar dribbled down her chin and wearing a party hat. She looks down at my bowl of gruel and stick of flaccid celery and gives me a sympathetic peck on the cheek before conga-ing her way back up to the front. I give a disgruntled ‘tut’, then scoop up the caviar residue off my cheek with the celery and hope the guards hostesses didn’t notice.