Let us define the word queue. In Britain a queue is an orderly group of people, usually arranged in single file, in which those at the front have (an often smug) supremacy over those at the back. Elsewhere in the world a queue can be anything from a benign mob to a full-on stampede in which the people at the front have to work hard to defend their positions. Those with the sharpest elbows, the deadliest stilettos or the deepest wallets establish supremacy.

Queues form randomly in every area of British life, from public transport to post offices and, most recently, heavily hyped retail opportunities. Queue-lovers would argue that they are a mark of a well-ordered, civilised, hierarchical society, one that rewards organisation and forethought and penalises chaos and laziness. Queue-haters (ie, me) would argue that they are the mark of a society that lacks imagination and initiative – and is far too easily led.

Quite why anyone in their right mind would want to stand in line all night to secure a chain-mail dress designed by one impossibly thin person for other impossibly thin people (as hundreds did for the Kate Moss collection in Oxford Street) is beyond me. But then again, I am not a teenage fashionista. Even if I were, however, I would never be caught dead queueing for the object of my sartorial lust. I would just turn up after lunch and hope they still had one left in my size – and if they didn’t, check out the (heavily remaindered) Madonna collection at H&M.

This is because I spent my formative years in Italy where there are no queues – or at least none of the orderly variety. It is not that there are any specific rules against them; in fact, officially, the authorities endorse them (in the same way that they also endorse fair play at football matches). It is just that Italians are naturally antiauthoritarian. They are also not very organised, nor do they like waiting; and since queueing is essentially organised waiting, it upsets them (and me) greatly.

If you are foolish enough to stand in a queue in Italy, you will inevitably find that someone else, usually a very pretty girl or an important looking fellow in a suit, is served before you. This is achieved by the simple expedient of that person marching to the front, shouting/flirting a bit, questioning the parentage of the person in charge/offering to buy him or her “coffee”, and swiftly moving on. You, meanwhile, will be left high and dry, more often than not with a “ Chiuso per pranzo” (closed for lunch: another great Italian euphemism) sign shoved in your face.

As a result, I will do almost anything to avoid a queue. I will buy clothes that do not fit me on the internet; I will walk to another bus stop in the rain; I avoid fashionable clubs or restaurants unless I can be certain of not having to interact with the clipboard Nazi in charge of the red rope. If I need the loo and there is a queue, I will always use the gents (tip: a small boy, if one is available to you, is an excellent prop to avoid embarrassment among existing occupants).

Wherever possible I will pay my way to the front. I cannot describe the joy that filled my heart when, on a recent trip to France, we shelled out an extra £50 for a “Flexi-Plus” ticket on Eurotunnel and sailed past queues of fellow holidaymakers, sweltering in the heat. Best use of £50 I can think of – and certainly a more lasting pleasure than a Topshop dress.

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