Sometimes, I dream of catching a plane dressed to the nines. Certainly, there's comfort to consider, and ease of slipping one's shoes on and off, but it's tantalising because nobody knows anything about me, except for my formal Identity.

I've noticed chats on planes often centre around the good old "where are you from," or "what do you do?". Our apparent staples of conversation when you have no-one around you that you know (compared with the party atmosphere, where you can leap on the 'how do you know?' train.

To be able to present an entirely new version of myself without comparison holds distinct appeal. And yet, I hate fancy dress, perhaps because it's such a ritualised obvious fa├žade.

Maybe I just want to be a secret agent, and pretend as if my life depended on it.