The airport is one of life’s great levellers, forcing people from disparate social strata to stare at massive screens together. How, then, does someone maintain a sense of mystique when just about everything in those spaces – giant Toblerones, giant outposts of TGI Fridays – is so devoid of class? In the Beckhams’ case, the answer has always bubbled up through clothing: arriving at Heathrow in 1997 with a complete set of Louis Vuitton suitcases, or landing at Narita in Tokyo in coordinating Gucci blazers in 2003. Or Victoria, more recently, being papped at JFK in face-swamping sunglasses, a cinched jacket of her own making and a pair of Balenciaga pantaboots, which might also have functioned as a sort of in-flight compression sock. It helped, of course, that she had an assistant to carry her Goyard – not a luxury afforded to most travellers, but a directive nonetheless: unshackle yourself from the curse of “comfies”.