When my grandfather took the train, it was his own train. That’s comfort.

My grandfather, HRH Prince Paul of Yugoslavia, was Serbian, and Serbs have a thing for cake.

One day my grandfather had plans to visit a friend. For a gift he brought with him a magnificent chocolate cake. His favorite, in fact.

He boarded his train. He placed the cake, in its box, on a table by a window. After divesting himself of overcoat and hat and whatnot fashionable items of the day, and all this caught in the expert handling of his retinue, I imagine the scene was docile.

For the journey he sat in a comfortable armchair by the window.

The city melted into countryside and wheat fields with magpies puttered past the sill, an endless Cezanne to watch. My grandfather was a major art collector, it was his fetish, if you like, he would have admired the scenery. He was likely fussed over, to a degree, for any want or need.

But there was that cake, in its box. Safe. And yet defenseless, say like a tiny mountainous country in the gun sights of WWII. Not that anyone knew that yet.

At some point he brought the cake box over and placed it on his lap. He opened it. He examined it. It appeared there was the tiniest of imperfections. Something he might correct easily with a fingertip. One taste was all it took. A single taste of the mighty cake and ultimately he demolished it. Not quickly, he was not a savage. But in bits and scoops until a hole had been made which was a point of no return. So he devoured it. He arrived at his friend’s with no gift to give. These were early days when losing a cake was the worst of things. No one knew what was coming.

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