The poule de luxe stalked through the lobby on six-inch spike heels. In her wake shambled a small son and broken wallet of a husband. She held a selfie stick aloft to film every second of herself storming to her lunch reservation, single-minded in her search for prime social media content scraped from the best hotel in the world: the Hôtel du Cap-Eden-Roc, Boulevard John Fitzgerald Kennedy, Antibes.

She had an expression that reminded me of Hitler’s smirk on the occasion of his pilgrimage to Napoleon’s tomb on his first and only trip to Paris in June 1940. It was one of glazed triumph that she had got there and wanted it all recorded for posterity.

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As this scene unfolded, several crack troops of the hotel’s staff (580 for 118 rooms, and four villas including a magnificent private Schloss called La Guettière, yours for €65,000 a night) monitored her, presumably working out how to stage a discreet intervention before she made it to her lunch table at Louroc, hard by a pop star and a real New York real estate billionaire, i.e. not Donald Trump.

For once, I am writing what........

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