The Biggles-like character who runs one of Britain's smallest airlines refuses to be deterred by economic turbelence.
If readers of this upstanding journal are unfamiliar with the existence of the Mile High Club, permit me to refer you to the works of Jackie Collins. If, on the other hand, you are already familiar with the club in question, you may feel you understand the glint that comes into Nigel Harris's blue aviator's eye when it is mentioned. But, honi soit qui mal y pense, the sound that the Mile High Club conjures up to Harris is not so much that of the creaking of aeronautical springs as of the distant ringing of cash registers. 'Someone in New Zealand started Mile High Club flights a couple of years back,' he recalls. 'You know - pay a hundred quid, get into a curtained-off partition behind the pilot with your girlfriend and, er, off you go. Making a bomb, apparently. We may start doing them ourselves next year.'