To help out friends, I sometimes collect a boy from his primary school near Sloane Square. This part of London boasts the most expensive homes in Britain and the local families are served by a crop of ultra-pricey schools. The best known, Hill House, was founded in the 1940s by an eccentric army officer, ‘the Colonel’, who replaced the traditional blazers, caps and ties with a uniform of soft shoes, breeches and cravats inspired by George Mallory’s climbing kit. The Colonel’s wife chose the colours – red, brown and saffron – and the pupils became a local landmark as they marched along the King’s Road to play games at the Duke of York’s parade ground. Their red breeches suggested a nickname, ‘the Rusty Blobs’. King Charles was a Rusty Blob. So was the pop star Lily Allen and the political commentator Nick Watt. Today’s Rusty Blobs include members of Jacob Rees-Mogg’s impressive litter.

If your hairdo hasn’t been invaded by a swarm of creepy-crawlies you haven’t made it socially

The boy I look after attends a school nearby and it provides exactly the same services as Hill House. First, it’s a nice, warm place for the cosseted Fauntleroys to fool around in during the day. Secondly, it gives the parents access to a social club with a high but discreet minimum property threshold. At the school gates the small talk is suitably oligarchical. ‘Can anyone recommend a fencing master in Holland Park?’ ‘Oxfordshire Council have said no to our helipad unless we re-classify the house as a business.’ ‘We’re looking for something near Beauchamp Place for about four-and-a-half.’

My little friend exists in a rarefied world of luxury that seems perfectly normal to him. ‘Do you prefer summer or winter truffles?’ he asked me while we were getting to know each other. I replied that I’ve never tasted a truffle and he gave me a pitying look as if I’d told him I don’t own a car or a TV set (which I don’t, but I thought he’d suffered enough surprises for one day). All his friends are gold-plated princelings just like him. A classmate’s parents have just bought three adjoining houses in Kensington. ‘Are you sure it’s three and not two?’ I asked. ‘Three in a row,’ he insisted. ‘And they’re knocking them through. Do you know how much it’ll be worth when it’s finished? Forty million.’

I asked if he has a lot of savings in his bank account. (At his age I had eight shillings, or 40 pence.) ‘I don’t think I should tell you that,’ he replied guardedly. His mother let me know that his net worth is £5,000 – thanks to a legacy from a great-uncle. He likes to invest in vintage books and this hobby makes him popular with the family of another boy who refuses to look at anything on the reading list unless it’s a first edition.

One of his friends is the son of a premiership football club owner and the poor kid suffers horribly as a result. His mobile phone gets nicked on a daily basis by pranksters who call his dad posing as soccer agents and offering the services of the latest hotshot striker from PSG or Bayer Leverkusen. Another wealthy classmate has a personal security guard who lurks all day by the school gate watching out for kidnappers. The guard even joins the kids on the Tube as they travel to the museums nearby. They call him ‘the Shadow’.

I heard about a pupil’s mother whom the BBC were eager to interview, and I assumed that she was a film star or a senior diplomat. In fact she was connected to a case of embezzlement worth billions of dollars, and her inquisitors worked for Panorama. But the sleuths drew a blank during the interview. No charges were laid. However, her star-turn on TV made her a local celebrity and established a new standard for social advancement in Chelsea. You’re nobody until you’ve been targeted by the goons from Panorama.

A similar convention applies to nits, or head lice, which are rife throughout the schools near Sloane Square. Many of the fathers are international businessmen who treat a spell in jail as a normal part of their working routine. While they languish in crowded prison cells, their scalps are flash-mobbed by uninvited guests. On release, they transfer the little colonists to their children who duly spread them throughout the school. It’s a status symbol – like Panorama. If your hairdo hasn’t been invaded by a swarm of creepy-crawlies you haven’t made it socially.

The burrowing parasites recently selected a new host – me. And I found it a major hassle to evict the squatters. You have to clip your hair very close to the scalp and anoint the stubble with an improvised disinfectant. Vinegar is good. Vodka is better. Both applications sting like mad. Not everyone realises that having head lice marks you out as a superior being with intimate connections to the world’s financial and political elite. You’re certainly not likely to share the news with your barber.

But if you know a member of the jetset who has a gang of itchy tourists on board, you may want to indicate your approval with a coded gift this Christmas. Buy him a Pitbull Gold Skull Shaver and a litre of Canadian Crystal Head Vodka, which comes in a glass bottle shaped like Yul Brynner’s bonce. He’ll appreciate the gesture. If you know, you know.