Some people get through the torture of airport check-in by scrolling on their phones. I spend it eyeing up other passengers' luggage. Despite years of obsessive searching, I'm yet to find the perfect suitcase. It's as elusive as a desert mirage. For the many years I travelled to events as Vogue editor, there was no question of managing with a carry-on. In fact, there was a kudos in taking a great haul of cases to international fashion weeks. I can still remember watching Anna Wintour's substantial Louis Vuitton collection being loaded on to a trolley from the baggage carousel at Milan's Malpensa. The amount of clothes needed for two weeks on the road, surrounded by the eagle-eyed fashion crew, demanded more than a medium-sized Muji. But even during those years trying out all sorts of different designs, I never found the ideal case – they were always too heavy, had too few compartments or were just impossible to squish in a way that would accommodate the extra shopping I'd return with. My attic is filled with discarded luggage experiments, lurking in the dark as memories of a different life and far too impractical for my current one. There's the vast black nylon Prada, a canvas Hartmann, a beautiful leather-strapped Globe-Trotter (the only one that occasionally makes it out into the light). Although I now travel more than I ever did at Vogue – for leisure and work – I still can't seem to solve the suitcase conundrum. Every new model arrives with a large dollop of expectation, like a procession of new boyfriends where you hope the next one might just be Mr Right. But then, within one trip, their fallibilities are always exposed. My most recent buy – a large lightweight number supposedly for ten-day trips – is indeed light. But why on earth didn't I buy one with two separate compartments and a compression feature? My Away carry-on – an American brand that's been valued at £1 billion – comes with an internal phone charger but lacks that all-important outside pocket. On the train to Gatwick last week, I eyed a couple's soft cover Samsonites laden with a huge number of zip-up compartments on the outside but lacking any vestige of style. Perhaps there is no perfect suitcase, it's an impossible dream. But if I accepted that, what on earth would I do to entertain myself at check-in? King Charlie? No, that's a bit too rich The latest unnecessary but enjoyable survey is the Happiness Index of names, commissioned by Winnrz. My partner's name David comes out top, though it's listed as Dave. Which left me wondering: is there a difference in the cheerful quotient between the diminutive and the full-milk version of names? Some Davids, like my own, are never known as Dave; others, like ex-PM Lord Cameron, are called Dave by family and friends. The posher you are, the more likely your name is to be abbreviated – think Fred, Bert, Mike. So perhaps the Happiness Index also has something to do with wealth. But then Charlie (as opposed to Charles) comes third in the rankings. And somehow I doubt our monarch – whose £640 million wealth is the same as the Sunaks – is ever called Charlie. Marbella is no place for Panama hats A Short break in Marbella has confirmed my irrational prejudice against women wearing straw Panama hats. There's no reason I should find this harmless accessory so irritating, but there's something unbearably prissy about them. I never thought I'd find myself saying this, but come back baseball cap – all is forgiven. How I watched my flight nerves depart I travelled with a nervous flyer – even more nervous than me – and we discovered an antidote is to consult a flight tracker. There's something soothing about watching the journey of your plane in transit as you wait to board your flight, and then knowing it's going to fly on to Ibiza after dropping you at Gatwick. It's reassuring to be in command of the facts. Rolling out the red carpet for activists At at last week's Cannes Film Festival, Julian and Stella Assange made one of their first joint public appearances since his release from Belmarsh Prison in south-east London. Both were dressed in custom-made Vivienne Westwood for the premiere of a documentary about the WikiLeaks founder. Stella pinned a brooch featuring a picture of Westwood and the words Stop Killing on to her peach and sea-green taffeta ballgown. The red carpet is becoming one of the most effective activist billboards of our time as images flood across social media in nano- seconds. 'You are what you wear' is never truer than when you're trying to make a point. Was I the only one not seen in Chelsea? Never ones to be upstaged by the French, we had our own starry bonanza last week – the Chelsea Flower Show. Even the least horticulturally minded of us couldn't have avoided hearing about an event which has become the launchpad for what wealthy Americans see as 'The London Season'. Every year the exhibition becomes larger and more celebrity-orientated in a very British way. David Beckham, Amanda Holden, Rivals star Alex Hassell, Joanna Lumley and Mary Berry all made appearances. At Chelsea, it's less a case of 'you are what you wear' than 'you are what you grow' – although its charitable initiatives, such as the Tackle HIV Challenging Stigma Garden, have made Chelsea the place fashion brands want to be seen. Hence appearances by jeweller Boodles, with its sparkling Raindance Garden, and Clare Hornby's Me+Em City Garden. With daily TV coverage and endless Instagram posts, at times it felt I was the only person I knew who wasn't at Chelsea. Then I'd remind myself I was in Marbella.