I have another confession to make. I am not very brave. I suffer from vertigo…badly.

In May 1971 I first became aware of the syndrome when I bailed out of a group of young Caterhamian schoolboys climbing to the summit of the Eiffel Tower. We trudged up the stairs since lifts were forbidden to us; we all played compulsory sport four times a week.

We had reached the first of the Tower’s three levels when I mistakenly looked down, froze, and begged the teacher to let me go back down. Having briefly satisfied himself that my palpable shaking was genuine, he gave way. I was allowed to return alone to the base of the Tower. There I awaited, with justifiable trepidation, the eventual return of my schoolmates. The chicken-clucking catcalls went on for days.

I had almost forgotten about my fear of heights when I tried again to scale the Tower in 1995, only again to bail out at Level 1.

And so, today, at 10.15 Paris time, after confidently purchasing “Sommet” tickets I entered the lift as part of a foursome. The other three were my wife, my stepdaughter Jaudine, and Cathy Ross, an American based in Harvard, Boston, whom we had met 30 minutes earlier as she charmed us with her observations about the French system of queue non-management and the failure of Tower staff to get up on time the day that the clocks went forward.

Within moments of the start of the ascent the all-consuming fear welled up again. I tried to ignore the sensation and confidently announced that we were heading straight for the top. A moment later I was pleading with the lift operator to let me out at Level 2. Although this was one level higher than I had reached on my two previous attempts, since today was the first occasion that I had taken the lift, and since Level 2 was the first lift stop, I knew I had made no progress in the bravery stakes. As I was leaving the car almost hand in hand with the lift operator I was jeered by a gaggle of small Japanese co-travellers who clucked like chickens just as my school friends had, those 39 years ago.

And so today I waited for two hours halfway up this pinnacle of French 19th century engineering, for my small party to return from the top. During this wait my spirits gradually rose as it slowly dawned on me that I was not alone. Although Level 2 swarmed with plenty of legitimate Level 2 tourists, as the time passed I began to recognise a number of ‘bailers’ like me. I picked them out by certain traits. They all kept well away from the viewing platform, they appeared to be reading the same ET trivia posters disinterestedly and repeatedly, and they were looking at their watches rather too frequently.

I approached one or two kindred spirits to compare experiences. Mutual warmth flowed. One girl even lent me her mobile phone since mine was out of juice. I realised that we ‘bailers’ were a micro-community linked by a common bond; the irrational fear of falling to our deaths from a structure visited in perfect safety by 3 million tourists a year and erected in 1895.

The realisation that I was part of this community boosted my confidence. I even ventured out onto the viewing platform and surveyed Paris. La Defense dazzled its modernity from the West; Montmartre and Sacre-Coeur beamed down beneficently from the North; St Germain des Pres lured us from the East with her unstructured, winding streets. Streets where I had chatted with locals until 2 am this very morning whilst enjoying a fine Havana cigar and a couple of Armagnacs.

And it was then that the secret of Paris’ inner beauty struck me. This City is all about promoting and encouraging Society, a goal which cannot be achieved by the issuance of a myriad of personality-stifling, freedom-restricting rules. Social interaction is enhanced when people meet and communicate. This happens when Englishmen go to the pub, visit a community centre, or perhaps when they play sport. (Note that working out on a treadmill with “IPod” leads stuck in your earlobes does not count!)

Yes, the Parisian authorities have somehow got it right. The Eiffel Tower is a stunning monument inspiring pride in the magnificent City of Paris, replete with its bars, parks and cafes. And from the second Level of the Tower it is also the breadth and scale of the parks, the avenues and open spaces that stand out.

Why do the Parisian authorities not seek to earn some cash by selling their recreational spaces? Surely the thrusting Chinese economic dragon would pay handsomely for a slice of the 'inappropriately large' parks that decorate the view? Why does the astonishing decision not to sell community facilities shine so brightly amongst a swathe of otherwise controversial municipal outputs? Does the answer perhaps lie in the cuisine? Consider Barnet Council’s attempt to trumpet the ‘benefits’ of selling community recreation spaces for cash. Is this not like a French frog pretending that he can save on his food bills by eating his own legs?

Wake up Barnet Council! If you take a brave decision then so will I. Restore the protective covenants to the Claremont Road community recreation ground and I will return to Paris’ 7th District and abseil off the Eiffel Tower.