It’s Wednesday afternoon in Regent’s Park and an immense white marquee glimmers through the trees. Above the old-fashioned formal flowerbeds, the lights of a neon sculpture cut through the dullish light. People wandering past me have “dressed-down” but their well-cut clothes mean money. A bright little biplane like a child’s toy wheels into sight in the sky trailing a banner that says “POP ART IS GAGOSIAN”. And the person coming towards me along the wide path, almost absurdly, as if we were on the set of a movie, is Tracey Emin. Great boots.

Inside the marquee, I have heard five different languages before I get past the security barrier, although their speakers look remarkably similar. You could never mistake an art crowd for, say, a concert crowd: most music people look like badly wrapped parcels. The long white aisles of booths in this modern-day souk, where the art is artfully packed into smaller spaces than in any gallery, feel almost unreal. Is this my town?