If you really want to know where Michael Portillo “lives,” forget the geography. He lives in the past, specifically in the golden age of British rail, circa 1960. He lives in a world where every station had a proper waiting room with a coal fire, and men wore hats. He lives on a platform between memory and nostalgia, forever clutching a paperback edition of Bradshaw’s Guide.
But physically? He’s at 34 Holland Park Avenue, London. Or in a train toilet filling out his expenses for the Ginsters pasty. Either way, he’s happy. And he’s probably wondering why you don’t own a suit in “Express Puce.”
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to check the departure board. There’s a man in a fuchsia jacket waving at me from platform 3.
