I once turned down an invitation to have tea on The Britannia with the Queen and Monty and all; in order to go on a first date excursion, picnicking up in the mountains. In to-day’s Britain this factoid would bring down one of two reactions. The first would be hearty claps on the backs and “I should think so too!”. The other is “OMG! Are you insane? What were you thinking?”. (Mind you, in my current incarnation, the average reaction would be “Havin’ a larf, are we?” At the time I was 18 and I could legally please myself! As I was only a scant few weeks out of boarding school this freedom was heady and still rib-ticklingly and foot tinglingly novel. I couldn’t be cajoled into compliance, nor ordered to obey. No-one could ever expel me again. Or forbid certain ways of doing my hair! And no-one would, ever again, make me wear the same clothes, day after day after interminable day. Nor make me leave a nice warm bed at 4.30 in the morning to...