High life | 5 March 2011

Sitting in my study, whose windows are covered in icicles, one feels cocooned from the elements, as if in a prison cell with the doors unlocked. The snows have finally come, the horizons are totally white, clouds and snowy peaks intermingling in a rhapsody of white, green and blue, the last two provided by pine and sky.

Some 35 years ago, I took a ski-plane up the Jungfrau, landed on an upward slope and skied down to Kleine Scheidegg, a vertiginous trip that had one of our fellow skiers being sick while small avalanches hissed past us. Two people quit halfway down and asked for a chopper to pick them up. One was pregnant, but unaware of it, the mother of my children. The other was an Italian male friend, who pretended to accompany the lady in distress but in reality had had enough. Two stayed with the guide, Roman Polanski and yours truly.