Coming your way: non-stop Richard Branson

In the aftermath of that spacecraft crash, Richard Branson is fighting for his reputation. What will happen now? He’ll be everywhere; on TV, in the newspapers, in magazines. Talking, talking, emoting, agonising, empathising. I had dealings with Branson when Virgin – Atlantic rather than Galactic – planned to fly to Kuwait before the first Gulf war to rescue stranded Brits, and media organisations saw his flights as a way of transporting their journalists. If you wanted even the smallest update, you grabbed Branson himself by the arm, or rode with him in the lift at Gatwick, and he would tell you everything he knew. Of course he wouldn’t. But he would convey that impression.

I dealt with him again over his lottery bid. He briefed the press at his house/office in Holland Park, west London. Smiled. Served coffee and danish. We’re cynical, but suckers for public figures who make free with the pastries. Branson learned the lessons of media accessibility early, not least in his seminal battle with the lumberingly corporate British Airways. Amiable everyman is a shtick. Amiable everyman doesn’t get to be a billionaire. Still, it has served him well. Criticism peters out; mud never sticks.

At peace in the crowd

Through nature or nurture, the Londoner learns to deal with the transport system. The capital city’s population rose by 108,000 last year. Some mornings all of them seem to be packed into my tube carriage. The rush hour service conveys the madding crowd. We expect it to work, and usually it does.

But no one associates the underground with reflection and beauty. One day last week, opposite me in a row of three, sat a chubby-faced black woman in a trouser suit. She seemed engrossed in a giveaway newspaper. But as the carriage emptied and the train left the station she slowly swivelled 45 degrees, sank to her knees and for a serene couple of moments held that position, oblivious to everything. Then she rose, sat again and re-immersed herself as before in the showbiz. We glanced. She smiled, and we parted to explore the day. This is our capital at its best, where hardly anything seems peculiar. Pray on the Circle line, if you like. Wear spectacles made of spaghetti if the feeling takes you. People might take note, but no one will object.

The virtuous circle of life

I was asked to write about a new book of photographs depicting West Indian diaspora life in Britain and contrasting snapshots of life in the Caribbean. A pleasure, but also a moving experience.

My father made the transition from Jamaica to London in the 1950s. One of his first jobs was as a carpenter at the Aldermaston nuclear base. He loved it here, but like so many of his generation it was always his plan to go back – and in 1987, on the night of the great storm, my parents did. Many pictures in the book – of families cutting cane, of men shinning up coconut trees – replicate the rural sights I see when I visit. He’s 94 now and 10 days ago, busying himself, he fell and hit his head. And because no one knows how they will feel before they expire, he assumed that how he felt in the days that followed was probably the way a 94-year-old would feel before they expired. So he announced that this was probably it and I scrambled for a plane ticket. In the event it wasn’t. He may or may not have years left. In the rural tranquillity of Jamaica, people routinely reach the high 90s and a great many make 100. Jamaica to London and back again; he completed his virtuous circle. So when he goes, he’ll go happy.