This was what they had been waiting for and they all turned towards the centre, looking upwards, listening, all of them smiling now.

The rising sound of the aircraft was not yet very loud, so that I heard the door of the box being opened behind my chair; a wedge of light came against the wall and then went out.

Clearly visible through the big window the dorsal lamp of the airliner began winking, and the sound of the jets levelled out to an even pitch. The pilots tensed and the hostesses took a few delicate eager steps towards the doors, with their bodies turned to face the group of boys.

I was aware that someone had come into the box and was standing behind me. I did not turn my head.

Then the pilots moved in a body towards the centre and the prettiest of the girls flung out her hands and called eagerly: "Who's for the air? "

The tallest of the boys responded: "I am! " His friends chorused to the first notes of the music: "We are! "

"Who's for the sky? " sang the girls, and they were into the number.

Under cover of the music the man sat down in the chair next to mine, shifting it at an angle so that he could face me obliquely. The glow from the stage defined one side of his head and gleamed along the side-piece of his glasses.

" Windsor," he introduced himself.

Who's for a wide blue sky-high fling?

We are! We're on the wing!

"I'm sorry to break into your evening." The man spoke the kind of English that is heard only on the cold-war propaganda networks, the accent unplaceable but definitely there.