You can tell a lot about a person by the way they behave in a queue. Especially a long one at an airport. Some people do their waiting silently and their fuming internally. Others want everyone around them to know how cheesed off they are. I like to alleviate the boredom by studying the fashion choices of those in my line and making small talk with my neighbours.

“My husband would kill for your jacket!” I said to the moustachioed gentleman in his sixties standing ahead of us in the queue for the economy check-in. (The kids and I were flying to Melbourne for a wedding). His chequered sportscoat ran the gamut of browns, with suede patches on the elbows and leather buttons. “It’s Harris Tweed,” he confided, as he brushed a speck of fluff from one sleeve. “The real thing actually. Got it in Scotland in 1979.”