Gstaad
It is not exactly a stop all the clocks occasion, let alone cut off the telephone, but I’ve finally come to a decision. My looking-at-cows time is over. I am going to leave good old Helvetia and find somewhere nice in the green and ‘unpleasant land’ I read about in Charles Moore’s Notes last week. (Corinne Fowler, what a halfwit; now, according to her, the British countryside is racist.) Easier said than done. The reason I want to move is that I’ve had it. For the first time in my life I’m bored with my surroundings.
Sixty-two years is a long time, but then Gstaad isn’t the charming little alpine village it once was. It still has charm but is not so little any more, with every blade of grass that’s not farmland covered by a wooden structure.
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