I’m dawdling down the streets of Kensington with my two-year-old grand-daughter called Sylvie and a teddy bear called Leonard.
The borough is the richest in the kingdom, but has somehow just gone Labour for the first time since King Canute. Yippee! Still, obscene wealth rubs shoulders with appalling poverty.
We pass private, preparatory schools, which are mushrooming all over the neighbourhood, feeder schools for St Custards. The well-heeled disgorge their charges from BMWs, au pairs discard them and jolly teachers cart them off over plush lawns in their curious Edwardian apparel. They are predominantly White, polite and impeccably behaved. They are already a race apart. It’s not their fault. They will never attend the local comprehensive.
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