Fortnum And Mason is one of the great and holy places of High Englishness, particularly since Harrods turned vulgar. Its fourth floor tea rooms are as elegant as one would expect, decorated with Constables and Henry Scott Tukes; your ’20 gets you a plump pot of Royal Blend, four rather mayo-blighted sandwich quarters, some fine scones and a couple of cakes (which I ignored). But I fear the English have forgotten how to do grandeur, if indeed we ever knew. The waiter was bubbly – and a Continental! – and the pianist offered us a discreet version of “Against All Odds” by Mr.Phil Collins. My dears, I shall not be returning to Fortnums in a hurry – unless of course work pays for it again, har har.