Sean Connery once said he never realised as a child that he was poor, because he knew nothing else.

Same here, except, unfashionable as it is to admit, my journey has been somewhat in reverse.

Although ours was not a rich family, my education at a private preparatory school in Chelsea was privileged. The establishment itself was in a red-brick Norman Shaw building in Cadogan Square overlooking private gardens. Chauffeur-driven Rolls Royces escorted little Lord Fauntleroys to the door. Greeting us at the entrance was the headmaster, the kind of person who seems to have become obsolete in modern Britain – a tall Colonel Blimp in a pinstriped suit and the poshest accent you ever heard.

Flash forward 30 years to the muddy, ankle deep sludge, overflowing bins and dreadful streets of Sofia. I had a dream last night and it was simply me walking around Chelsea, savouring the lovely pavements and the pristine atmosphere, wandering down Beauchamp Place, looking at the antique shops and then heading into Harrods, up to the bookshop, maybe having a Ploughman’s Lunch in the basement pub. Just a straightforward longing – I suppose – to see impeccably manicured, elegant streets. Even on the way to work I fantasised about taking a quick plane to London and then catching the tube to Sloane Square.

Perhaps, back then, my parents should have taken me by the hand, forced me to look around and see how lucky I was?

I have taken my wife to see the area. The school has been well preserved and, if anything, looks better now than it did then. Police cars circle around the whole time – protecting the proceeds of the establishment, I suppose. (You certainly never saw them in Tottenham!) 

Once, when I was looking at my old school with a black friend, semi-leaning on his car parked in Cadogan Square, a police car stopped us and asked what we were doing. My friend said something like "nothin’, just lookin’" in a London accent that only triggered more questions about the ownership of the car. I started talking and instantly the police accepted my explanation and excused themselves. And you believe that class is dead?

Anyway, the point of this little trip down Chelsea lane is that I have to grudgingly admit that – perhaps – under my supposedly spiritualist veneer beats the heart of a materialist who’d rather like living in a penthouse in Cadogan Square with my family. Offers on a postcard please...