I doubt it ever gets much above 40 miles an hour, which affords one ample time to enjoy the concrete flamingos of Crawley, the Welcome signs of East Croydon, the barbecues of Burgess Hill Yes, I think, I could really live like this. My feelings of goodwill continue for at least three-quarters of an hour as I sink a couple of Bellinis and make much of a breakfast that just keeps on coming: a succession of nice men in white jackets bring fruit cocktails, croissants, Danish pastries, as the back gardens of south London potter past the window.Leisurely, I think they’d call this train. By the time we arrived at Piccadilly, the entire first-class section looked like they’d been boiled alive. And that ticket cost just pounds 25 less than this one.I settle in, patting my seat and feeling smug as commuters glance at us while running for the Chorley Express I could live like this.

The air-conditioning had gone into reverse on a day that topped 80F, and mercilessly pumped steam on to our legs. Even the antimacassars are inoffensive, and, despite beautifully regulated ventilation, we are allowed to open and close the slidey windows at will.The last time I travelled first class (someone else was paying), I went to Manchester on Virgin Rail. We plump down in lavishly upholstered winged armchairs, and I start plotting how I’m going to sneak one off for my drawing-room.This is a world of wood and brass, a place where every available surface has been covered in glorious marquetry, or hidden beneath a starched white tablecloth. If this were New York, I’d probably be clocking him with my mace-gun, and yelling “Up yours, buddy!” by now.

Instead, I meekly shuffle along the queue to check in.Everything about the Orient Express is, indeed, Sybaritically luxurious – within, of course, the confines of it being a long, narrow corridor with seats either side Service is superb, the environs profoundly soothing. “I don’t trust her!” he cries, pressing a business card into the hand of the startled woman in front of me. “She’s overdressed! Never trust a woman who’s overdressed!” Huh. A man in a colourful brocade waistcoat, who bears a significant resemblance to Simon Callow, bears down on me, gesticulating. Half a dozen actors mingle with the crowd, discombobulating those around them by chatting up total strangers and offering inappropriate quantities of information about themselves. But it’s sweet: couples showing their affection by laying out pounds 200 a head for what ultimately boils down to meals-on-wheels.
This particular trip is billed as a Murder Mystery Tour. They make an interesting contrast with the sugar daddies and gaggles of corporate beanfeasters who make up the majority of the rest of the passengers.