The alarm clock explodes. It is 5am. I pull back the curtains to find a grey morning with a thin drizzle. Writing for Lusso is rough work – but someone’s got to do it. Shave, shower and a cup of AA Chagga coffee from H.R. Higgins (Coffee Man).

There is a knock on the door. A man in a dark suit is waiting with a Mercedes. Through the early rush hour traffic to Northolt Airport where I am greeted by a uniformed RAF guard. Another cup of coffee (not from Higgins) and a soggy croissant. So much for RAF catering. Through a perfunctory security check and a twenty yard walk across the tarmac to where my little Dornier propjet is waiting.

An hour and a half later we are landing at Nice in the sort of sunshine only travel posters can ever produce. Only today it is real. A willowy female greets me as if we’ve known each other for years. We whiz through customs and out to where a limousine is ticking over. Through the Nice traffic along the sea front to the Harbour Master’s dock. Here a vast but inflatable dingy with a huge outboard motor is put-putting impatiently. The sea is surprisingly choppy as we head offshore towards Africa or, in this case, towards the 72 metre motor yacht RM Elegant which is anchored half a mile out to sea in deeper waters.

We scoop round in a high speed crescent of waves and come to a halt at the stern of the yacht. Off come my shoes. On go a pair of towelling flip-flops and into my hand comes a glass of Krug. I am beginning to feel happier about life. Another glass of Krug and then (I am ashamed to admit) a third. Things are really looking up. The wind has dropped so I stand on the foredeck waiting for lunch to be served. Beside me is a Jacuzzi bubbling merrily. I’m not a Jacuzzi person but the sight of all that froth surrounded by one of the great views of the world – the Cote d’Azur in all its glory – makes me reconsider. The RM Elegant has fifteen double cabins and a crew of thirty two. Thus the crew actually outnumbers the maximum number of guests. That is what I call a reasonable ratio.

One of the aforementioned crew, a gorgeous Romanian lady - aged no more than twenty three – who speaks accented but good English and asks if I would like to be shown to my cabin. It is down two decks and, I notice on the door, is called Amethyst. Inside I find myself in a hi-tech heaven. A vast plasma screen, not a great deal smaller than the double bed, dominates the room. Various remote controls alter not simply the TV programmes but also the lights, the air conditioning and, I have no doubt, the amount of gin in the dry martini.

Lunch is served on the stern deck by another bevy of Romanian lovelies. It is a delicate concoction of seafood and pastries washed down by some perfectly acceptable white burgundy.

After the meal I am offered a few toys to play with. The one which excited me most is a ferocious Yamaha water scooter with a million horsepower engine which would send me through the waves at hypersonic speed. I declined gracefully, saying that the wind was a mite too chilly and the waves a mite too tall. The real reason, however, I kept to myself. I was terrified by this machine. Oh yes, and I don’t swim too well.

A slight increase in the background noise meant that we were getting under way. Up came the anchor chain and we slithered off eastwards along the coat towards Monte Carlo. On either side we passed an unending spattering of yachts, most of whom were substantially smaller than RM Elegant. Some, however, were so famous that even a peasant farmer like me had heard of. Chief amongst these was the former Onassis yacht, Christina O, which looked sweepingly elegant – if a little dated – as she lay at anchor.

After no more than two hours we arrive offshore of the most famous tax haven in the world, Monaco. Down to the stern, off with the flip-flops and on with the shoes. Another high speed zizz to a hotel landing stage where I disembark and find myself smack in the middle of swinging downtown Monte Carlo. But there is no time to take in the sights as I am urged up the hill – puffing inelegantly – to the Monte Carlo Tennis Club. Here we are met by the Club Secretary and the inevitable champagne and canapés. He points out the twenty courts, the restaurant, the private boxes and all the other goodies which make this surely the most picturesque tennis club in Europe. Not being a tennis nut, I concentrate on the view and try to count the other yachts at anchor out to sea. Elegant is easily visible with its swooping deckline which makes it stand out from all the other ships.

By eight o’clock we had detached ourselves from the tennis world and had arrived at the Hotel de Paris where we were due to dine. For me this was a moment of some significance since the last time I had been in the hotel was almost precisely fifty years ago when I had come with my mother and Graham Greene to be a spectator (not a guest) at the wedding of Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier in 1956. (Enough name-dropping. Ed.)

Dinner was served at the Michelin one star Le Grill on the roof which was superb but – by the standards of the Hotel de Paris was almost second class. The hotel’s other restaurant is, of course, Alain Ducasse’s three star restaurant, Louis XV.