Helen D’Vorcee

As seen in the Times I’m fiddling with my phone when a news notification pops up. Another independent school has closed, the latest atrocity in Labour’s unrelenting Khmer Rouge-style anti-middle-class genocide. Seething, I knew it was high time for me to spend a few weeks away from Britain, Andy Burnham and mad, bad Ed Miliband. But where to go? Husband Simon’s place in the south of France? No, much too hot. Sardinia? No, can’t risk running into Georgie, not after what happened in Sexy Fish on New Year’s Eve in 2012. Then I remember. Emilia Cash-Barings has been raving about this saucy sex cruise she’s just been on. A week of pure hedonism that made Tiberius’s palace on Capri look like the Women’s Institute AGM.

As seen in the Times ‘You young people, I don’t even know where to start!’ My phone call to my daughter Isabel is entering its 40th minute. ‘You’re all too busy donning keffiyehs these days to do any BONKING. ‘When I was your age, it was snogging to Duran Duran all night, then onto the couch for an hour’s kip, then into the office for a full day’s work at the PR agency or Tatler or wherever I was then… the point is there was no whingeing, just working hard and having a bloody good time.’ I then ask about Tom, Izzy’s long-term boyfriend, but interrupt with another harangue: ‘The thing is, Tom is very sweet.