I learn something about the world every time I fly with Easyjet and my time spent in their loving, bosomy embrace yesterday was no exception. I learnt that it is possible to actually make people believe they are moving closer to their destination, simply by sporadically rearranging them in the orange hemmed waiting pen. I learnt that it is possible to make people pay extra money, simply to stand slightly to the left and ahead of others and call it a priority boarding system. I learnt that if you can here a man moaning that is he isn’t used to queing as it isn’t “something that generally happens” to him, he will look exactly as you think he would (their priority boarding system (cream trousers, cream jacket, cream fedora, neck and head that resembles that of a dyspeptic turkey). I also learnt that British men will never be truly European until they have mastered the art of wearing any of the following coloured trousers; red, pink, green, aqua, sky blue. We simply can’t do it and get away without looking like they have been dressed by their Nanny.
Flying with Easyjet is pretty much akin to a sociology lesson at 11,000 feet! But, they did kindly fly me to Nice, which was very good of them considering I had paid for the privilege. And so, as my no.99 bus pulled away from the terminal I was back in Nice and in to a world as far away from the industrially scarred banks of the Mersey Estuary abutting Liverpool Airport as it is possible to get. I was back in a world where if you drive a Maserati it is perfectly legal to park on the pavement and across a school crossing. I was back in a world where the joggers are manicured before setting designer clad feet out of the door, where the drinks are painfully expensive, but as soon as you clap eyes on the Azure blue sea, the rest of the planet can go hang its head in shame.
My trip, gloriously sponsored by www.pebblesproperties.com, was to photograph Nice in all its glory, to find images of the city that sell it to those lucky or wily enough to be able to spend lavishly. Based in the Musiciens area, I am spoiled for choice. Glorious architecture, 10 minutes from the Promenade Des Anglais and 15 minutes from the old town. I can feel the sympathy oozing out of every virtual pore as you read this, but trust me, I am willing to suffer for my art.
But, and this is something I never thought I would ever write, there is just one fly in the espresso, one hairy caterpillar in my salade Nicoise, the weather. The weather as I left the battered and scarred slurry of the Liverpool estuary was better than in Nice. Surely that should not be allowed?