Long haul business class. The little people file sullenly past, herded to the rear, fitted into battery seats designed to develop deep vein thrombosis, excluded by just a curtain from the complimentary champagne, the decadance. I play with the buttons on the control consol. One button raises the partition, the conversation barrier between privileged seats. Another transforms the seat with a soft whir of electric motors, to an orthopaedic bed. Four course dinner, served in luxurious isolated repose, like a Roman emperor, with cognac and chocolate. Fantasizing about the stewardess. Coffee, tea or me? Another button summons her, and the dinner debris disappears. Would I like a pillow? Another cognac perhaps? Let me show you how the movie channel selector works. She leans, so close, and an old sadness is resurrected by her perfume. So many movies. A classic maybe. Yes, James Cagney. Ruthless psychopath, alone in the White Heat and flame of the final explosive scene. ‘Look at me Ma. Top of the world.’

Yes. Top of the world. And all alone.