Russian invasion

Gstaad

There’s more happy dust to be found indoors around here than powder on the slopes. Last week I drove to the Diableret glacier and skied my legs off trying to catch up. At 3,000 metres — the maximum height the old prop planes used to reach when crossing the Atlantic — and upwards, the white stuff was perfect. (I mean the snow on the ground.) Although I smoke non-filter Camels and drink the heavy stuff, my lungs felt perfect. My feet hurt like hell, however, and I became convinced while skiing that I had gangrene, or something equally disgusting. After two hours I could bear the pain no longer. I stopped and took off my boots. Eureka! They were not mine, but my son’s old ones, worn when he was 16 and at Le Rosey. No wonder I thought I had gangrene. But I had to put them back on and ski down for another 20 minutes non-stop — 20 minutes which felt like five days in the company of Paris Hilton and her distinguished family.