In all the travelling I’ve done for this job, I’ve never quite found the perfect piece of weekend luggage. I’ve fantasised about it, as you do. Or I do. Frankly I’m amazed how many women’s fantasies seem to involve handcuffs, murder or finding themselves at the head of the Christian Louboutin sample sale queue; mine are about cubic centimetres, hardware and the flint-faced woman at the Alitalia check-in eyeing up my luggage and finally saying: “Yes, madam, you may take that on board, in which case I will not hurl it on to this conveyor belt and watch it tumble into an abyss of confusion and thence into lost-property limbo.