Oh, it was such a relief when we got the call-up, when Cath rang back in October and said they wanted to ‘pack the place out’ for this Easter week, this March in other words, and were me and Pierre free? Us, free? To go skiing? To the Cobb Château? It was all I could do not to scream out loud before I said, as one must, that I would ‘check the diary’, but I was pretty sure that ‘skiing would work’.

The Cobbs have a spare castle in Switzerland, which they occasionally lend to friends and let out to those rich enough to afford it, because it comes with a chef, chambermaids, a driver, etc., attached. This category definitely does not include us, because, as I remind him: Pierre has not sold a sculpture now for three whole years.

To be quite honest, when Cath called, I wasn’t sure we could do it. Even though the actual week itself is gratis, we could still barely afford to go, what with the train tickets to London and then Heathrow, the flight, the train, then taxi from Geneva to Gstaad to Rougemont, the tips to staff – but the Cobbs do have an account at the ski shop and guests can hire equipment as they please, try out snowboarding and put little accessories like gloves and high-altitude lip salve on the tab, their guests ski in a red cloud of Swiss ski school instructors, like corpuscles, and the Cobbs always kindly refuse Pierre’s offer, made through clenched teeth, of ‘taking everyone out for a meal’.

As for the other guests: the cast is the Lacostes, Virginie and Mathieu – she’s a very foxy French woman who skies like an Olympic champion, with much hip-swaying. They came to dinner at Court Place but Cath couldn’t have me and Pierre, obviously, because of my form with Henry Pike – it would have been hard for Biddy (though not that hard in my view). Then there’s the bonking baron and his wife – Esmond and Jacqueline-the four Cobblets, of course, including a slightly piano Serena, who is for some reason not so keen to ski, this year.

A big topic of conversation over fondue and pflumli last night was neighbouring Hutton, the gatehouse of which everyone thought was on the market but about which now no one seems very clear. It’s obviously owned by Sir Michael Hutton, but that is all that is obvious. It’s not necessarily on the market, but the Lacostes have viewed it, the same weekend they were staying chez Cobb. And so has, I know, Clare Sturgis.