Woken by the alarm at 5.45. Rub eyes and wonder where I am. Pitch dark outside. Even the birds are still asleep. Stagger to bathroom and, whilst still en route, remember that I’m flying to Geneva today. God how I hate flying.

Or, to be more accurate, the rigmarole necessary before flying. Driving to the airport. Finding a parking space. Waiting for the bus to take you to the terminal. The endless line at the check-in desk. The family in front of you with the excited and noisy children. The even longer line through security. The chavs on their way to a weekend of binge-drinking on the Costa del Heineken. The endless wait in the departure lounge punctuated by random visits to Dixons in case they have any new gadgets for sale.

The bad coffee. The announcement of a delay. More bad coffee. The struggle to get seated. And then – a month or two after getting out of bed – the takeoff.

Inspected my bloodshot eyes in mirror and struggled to find switch on electric toothbrush. The vibrations of the toothbrush kick-started my brain, which is how I remembered that this morning would be different. And so it was. Half an hour and one cup of good coffee (from H.R. Higgins of Duke Street, Mayfair) later there was a knock on the door. I opened it to a cheerful chauffeur and a shiny Mercedes waiting for me.

The sun was trying to rise as we crossed the Thames at Dartford, and by the time we arrived at Biggin Hill airfield it was actually daylight. The Gold Air building is on the far side of what had once been the home of Douglas Bader and a few of The Few who won the Battle of Britain. Today it is the base for some of the sexiest private jets I have ever seen, one of which was to be mine for the day.

Learjet G-OLDT, complete with a grey-haired pilot and a very feminine co-pilot were waiting for me. No messing about in queues here. No raucous fellow-passengers. Indeed no security or immigration either. Just me, my jet and a bright blue sky.

Inside I must admit it was a tad cramped since the fuselage is low and small. I snuggled (the correct description for my manoeuvre) into one of the eight seats while the two jet engines behind me did their limbering-up exercises and then we were off. The take-off and initial climb are steeper than on good old BA, and the cabin service a tiny bit quicker too. Before I had a chance to undo my seatbelt, the co-pilot had clambered to the rear of the plane (which also doubles as the toilet) and had produced a tray full of ethereal croissants and yet more coffee.

An hour after take-off we began our descent over the Jura mountains with lake Geneva to our left. Unlike all the other poor saps who were landing at Geneva airport that morning, I did not have to worry about queues for Immigration control. Nor did I have to stand by a carousel waiting for the last case from the flight which, for some strange reason, is invariably mine. On the contrary. I simply walked a dozen paces across the sunlit tarmac, waved bonjour to a uniformed gent whom I took to be a Swiss customs man, and was back out in the fresh air where my taxi was waiting. The whole operation from touch down to taxi lift-off was less than five minutes. By now I was completely acclimatised to being a VIP and thus found myself irritated by the Geneva traffic which appeared to be totally ignorant of how important I was. Welcome to the real world.

Sorry! The full article is only for subscribers. To gain access to the full article visit the Lusso Store and place any order. If you have placed an order in the past, then you only need to enter your email address below. Enter the email address you used for your order: