The decisions that come with travelling business class are hard ones. Do I choose the Loch Fyne smoked salmon or the marinated mushrooms with feta cheese and fresh rocket? The Geyser Peak Chardonnay or the Saint-Aubin La Pucelle? I plumped instead for the complex flavours and aromas of the Charles Heidsieck Mis en Cave Champagne to sip while reclining on my seat watching Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday on my personal TV screen.

I wasn't hungry of course, having made full use of the free fresh fruit and muffins in the business class lounge at Heathrow, but that wasn't the point. It would surely have been rude to turn down the spinach, cream cheese and roasted vegetable sandwiches and the warm fruit scones. "A top up, madam?" asked the air hostess coming round with more champagne. "Well, if I must," I said between mouthfuls of glazed apricot tart.

Immigration at New York's JFK airport proved no problem. Do I have a communicable disease? No. Have I ever been arrested? No. Have I ever been involved in espionage or sabotage? No. Have I ever withheld custody from a US citizen granted custody of the child? No. They forgot to ask whether I have communist sympathies, or perhaps they don't care any more. And after today I can only ever be described as a champagne socialist anyway.

A woman in the airport started talking to me. She worked for the Playboy website. Perhaps I should have picked her brains, as the bed at my hotel on Park Avenue could have fit at least four people in it comfortably. I meant to go out searching for people to fill it, but sated with smoked salmon and champagne, I fell asleep instead.