Spare a thought for poor George Osborne. The chancellor has had a tumultuous year. A great office of state before the age of forty. Master of all he surveys. Slashing and burning for Britain. Curbing the excesses of the poor.

A crafty winter holiday was the least he deserved. Klösters, the world’s most exclusive ski resort, the only destination equal to his sybaritic grandeur.

But at the airport this week he was reduced – like the most impotent child – to tears of frustration at the loss of his luggage. Reports reach that he shouted and stamped, cursed and cajoled, but nothing could call into being the exquisitely riveted corners of his monogrammed portmanteaux.

The chancellor is not thought to be staying at the Klösters home of his millionaire associate, scion of the famous banking dynasty, Nat Rothschild.

He is thought, sadly, to be still looking for his luggage. Airline executives are counting the cost as we speak.