There has been another massive earthquake in Italy. My high school friend, Karen Noswothy, let me know, as we were in transit when it happened. Devastasting.

It is too horrible. When we were safe, others were not.

Thankfully, there were no fatalities, but 15,000 people are displaced in an area north of Rome. Their lives have been upended.

Geoff was in Mexico City in the big earthquake in the early hours of 19th September, 1985, a few years before I met him.

He noticed that his hotel room was shaking, but thought nothing of it and went back to sleep.

He caught the first flight leaving from the airport that morning to Los Angeles. He noticed that it was chaotic at the airport, but thought that it was normally chaotic. It was only when he reached Los Angeles, that he discovered the extent of the devastation and that about 5,000 people were dead.

Growing up in a white, middle-class suburb of Sydney, tragic natural events, like these, felt remote: a long way from sunny Down Under.

Although the bushfires and earthquakes in Australia felt real.

War did not.

The Vietnam war, documented on television, was a big game changer. You knew Aussies were fighting, that it was horrific, that innocents were dying, and that it was an endless, unwinnable war. But it still felt a long way off to me, a teenager, who had never travelled off the island.

I worked in the City during two major IRA attacks. The Bishopsgate Bomb, detonated at 9am on Saturday 24th April, 1993, caused one billion pounds worth of damage. Every window of the building opposite Lloyd’s was blown out, and the streets were covered in work papers like confetti. It was a shock to see what a bomb can do. I had never heard of, let alone seen, bomb damage in Australia. I used to frequently visit a client in that building. I was trying for a baby.

We are back in England soon from Italy. Where there are no earthquakes or hurricanes to speak of.

Mount Vesuvius, which we gazed at from Naples and Ischia, is still active, and it will erupt again. It is hard to believe that, when you are eating pizza and watching Vespas darting everywhere.

 

 

It is windy, but sunny today, in Ischia, Italy.

Yesterday, we went to Prochida, a small island about 20 minutes by ferry from the main port in Ischia. I went there three years ago, and I wanted to show Geoff.

Three years ago, Geoff and I were meant to have a holiday in Ischia, to mark the 25th anniversary of our engagement. Again, disaster struck. He was unable to make it last minute. He had to bale out due to work reasaons. It wasn’t that he was under pressure at work. It was crucial for him to stay; our future depended on it.

What should I do? Go or stay? The children were both elsewhere at Uni and school, so I decided to brave it and go it alone. I couldn’t pass up ten days of swimming in the sea.

The hotel was at the other end of Ischia from where we presently are, in Lacco Ameno, on a hill top, with giraffe like pine trees. It was full of couples. The receptionist asked at check-in, “Will Signor Wilmot be joining you?” I replied that he couldn’t make it due to work commitments. One of his eyebrows shot up. He was thinking, “He’s left her!”

The hotel had excellent wifi, so I downloaded book after book after book. I read by the pool and at the local beach. I swam in the emerald water and used the thermal pools, Ischia’s speciality, at the hotel.

And every other day, I took myself off on an excursion: to a classical concert at famous gardens, La Mortella, in Forio; to Prochida to see an authentic, non-touristy community; to thermal springs and to the Castle Aragon, which is a stone’s throw from our current location.

The days were doable, albeit lonely, but I have always liked my own company. Well, most of the time. I was sick of myself after ten days if the truth be told.

It were the evenings that were torture. One of the main attractions in Italy is the food. It takes centre stage. If you are on a diet, forget coming to Italy. You will crack under the pressure of the pasta, pastries, seafood, salami, tomatoes on toasted bruschetta. You may have resolved, before travelling, to only occasioanlly partake in the carbs. Forget it; you will crack on the first day and eat all that is on offer. I am dreading to think what the scales will say when I arrive home!

Each evening, I would head to my table. My table was in the middle of the room, and I was surrounded by couples who faced into the room; yes, directly towards me. I took a book with me each evening, which I read without glancing up from my lap, even when shoving spaghetti into my mouth.

It was bearable until the Saturday night. It was the ‘romantic night’. I was greeted with a red rose from a waiter at the door. I exclaimed “No, grazie” and showed him the face of my hand in rejection. He looked hurt. What could he expect?

Then the serenading began during the meal. A quartet went from table to table strumming and singing love songs. Surely they wouldn’t come to me, alone. Yes they did. Of course they did. I couldn’t keep reading whilst they were beside me, bellowing out “That’s Amore.” I went puce with embarrassment.

So  yesterday, Geoff and I set off for Prochida, and we walked the same trail I took three years ago, exactly.

Along the way, we saw pretty villas, locals buying veg and fruit from tiny fiat lorries and small cars, as the roads are so narrow.

Today, we are going to catch the local bus around the island.

The reason we didn’t stay at my hotel in Lacco Ameno, is that is is closed for the season for renovations. What a shame. I would have liked to turn up with Signor Wilmot.

 

DISASTER struck yesterday. We have been conned by the photos, on the internet, of our hotel in Ischia, an island off the Amalfi coast. It is a dump, bearing no resemblance to the photos I poured over.

I chose the hotel, as the small beach in front of it, with views towards Aragon Castle, was featured in The Talented Mr Ripley, filmed here in 1999. A young Jude Law, in his prime, lounges, with a young Gwyneth Paltrow, on the volcanic beach out front, when a young Matt Damon chances upon them. It is an idyllic piece of cinematogaphy, showcasing a glamorous, bygone era of foreign travel, when only the rich could afford it.

We arrived in the driving rain to see rubbish being washed up on the windswept beach. No movie stars in sight. Just a deserted, dirty beach. There was a section of missing tiles on the hotel pier. And the icing on the cake was that the next door area was a construction site.

I had an argument with reception at checkin. We had indeed paid for half board – breakfast and dinner. “No signora. You are mistaken.” I was not mistaken. I had the paperwork to prove it. And the room. I hate bright yellow. The room was bright yellow, and the bathroom had white and canary yellow tiles. It was past its useby date; there were cracked tiles and missing grout.

Geoff seeing the scowl and disappointment on my face quoted Rudyard Kipling’s poem If: “If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster; And treat those two impostors the same.” 

So Positano was a triumph; Ischia was a disaster. I think he was making the point that you must remain steadfast, in character, irrespective of external highs and lows. In other words, he was hoping I would take the high road and not throw my toys out of the pram.

We went in search of some expresso and cake; the only sensible thing to do in the circumstances. The quality of the cakes in Italy is exceptional, wherever you are! And we even found a shelf holding a beloved dog in a boutique on the way; the owner explained that he liked to be near her. I missed Domino!

All was not completely lost back at the hotel that night. We were the only guests enjoying half board in the restaurant. But the food was out of this world; one of the best meals we’ve ever eaten: seafood risotto, steaks and light-as-air puddings/dessert. I felt sorry for the staff that we were the only ones to enjoy the chef’s mastery.

It is the last week of the season, and the maitre d’ will soon be leaving his young family to work in Davos, in Switzerland, until the tourist season commences again in Ischia, in March 2017. He will, he explained, miss Christmas at home with his bambinos. He bemoaned the fact the tourism couldn’t be sustained over the winter months in Ischia: that the island could not make the most of the natural thermal springs and sunshine.

I took look one look at the hotel falling apart around me; surely this was the problem. The hotels were not up to to scratch. Noone was putting money back into the infrastructure.

Today, we will go to Procida, a small, non touristy island about half an hour away by ferry.

 

We woke this morning to a dramatic thunderstorm off the Amalfi coast. And sat eating breakfast, our last in Positano, watching lightning strike over the ocean. It was a natural fireworks display.

Today, we travel to Ischia. And there is a story to be told about Ischia. I have been, but not with Geoff, three years ago. I went on a romantic break on my own – at the last minute Geoff had to bale out due to work!

The one downside to a stay in Positano, as far as Geoff is concerned, is that you cannot walk along the coast. There are no footpaths on the road: only just enough room for two cars to squeeze by each other like shy strangers.

Yesterday, we caught the ferry to Amalfi, about 14 kilometres south of Positano, so that we could see the coastline from the water. Positano is very quaint, but there is no real old town, only an ancient church. The buildings look like they have been constructed in the 60s and 70s, not architecture’s best hour.

Amalfi has a square, lined with exquisite shops, full of local delicacies. There is a small, attractive old town. We sat and people watched in Pansa (1830) over a cup of coffee and pastries, and bought authentic goodies for the children’s Christmas stockings.

Now that we are on the cusp of the Christmas period, festive lights and trees will soon line the main routes in London. And the shops will fill up with frenzied shoppers. With the warm weather clinging on here in Italy, it is impossible to contemplate cold weather, perhaps even snow, in Britain soon.

In the Lemon Store, we bought Limoncello, made out of the local lemons from the ancient trees of “sfusato Amalfitano” to take back to London and Hampshire. Each night, we finish the night with the liqueur, made from fresh lemons from the hotel garden. It is an effective digestif after a plate of spaghetti.

On television at home, we often watch an Italian chef, Gino D’Acampo, on his travels around Italy. The owner of the Lemon Store pointed to a photo of Gino with her, hanging near the cash register. Apparently, her lemon farm featured in one of his programmes, three years ago.

I had been hoping for one last swim in the sea before we caught our ferry from Naples to Ischia, but there is too much electricity about. I don’t want to end up like a fried sardine. When the sea is lit by the sun here, it is like sapphire, but when it is overcast, it has more grey to it, making it a black/blue, like majorcan pearls or  black opals.

Instead, I had a stroll through the the tasteful, authentic interiors of the common areas; I found the owner of the hotel [her beloved husband is dead] discussing the menus with her staff. Attention to detail is obviously her catchphrase.

Arrivederci Positano; grazie for a bella time.

 

 

 

We are still on the Amalfi coast today. It is hazy, but the sun is trying to peek through.

The view from a terrace, at breakfast, this morning in Positano reminded us of the view from the balcony at 19 Cater Street, Coledale, in Australia, where we visited my parents many times. Unlike here on the Amalfi, there is a thin strip of plain – flat land – between the escarpment and the sea, making human settlement easier. Here in Positano, I have no idea how they manage to build the houses clinging onto to the cliff face, like magnets.

The Cater Street house was on a steep hill, that my father, Stan the Man, coined ‘Heartbreak Hill’. It had far reaching views east to the horizon. Geoff loved sitting on the balcony and reading in the peace and quiet. When he could! If Stan, my father, found him on his wanderings around the garden – he was always pottering – he’d interupt his solitude with endless kookaburra chatter. Dad loved a chin wag.

Yesterday, the sea was particularly rough in Positano, making it impossible to enter the water from the swimming terrace, constructed with concrete over rocks – there is a lift that takes you down 300 metres through rock to reach it. It was too rough to attach the swimming ladder to the edge of the terrace. You had to enter the water from the beach.

 

This took some expertise. Gill Davis, my friend and dancing partner in Australia, told me that waves usually come in sets of seven, followed by a lull. (Her husband is an ace surfer, having started as a grommet in Cronulla in his early teens. He is now almost sixty and can still surf the big swell with the best of them.) I instinctively knew how to read the waves, growing up and swimming in Aussie surf.

Most of the Germans, Americans and Italians at the hotel, were obviously ignorant of this phenomenon; I watched, with mouth open in horror, as they were repeatedly knocked to their knees entering or exiting the dumpy foreshore. One poor woman was knocked over in flippers, and couldn’t get up. I hate to say it, but it was her great weight that kept her horizontal for many minutes, before she could roll over and somehow get to her feet.

I went for a swim several times, and being Miss Bossyboots, tried to explain to whoever was on the beach that they had to wait for the lull. They seemed grateful when they made it through to the washing-machine like sea further out without injury.

Later, Geoff and I had another game of tennis on the glorious court, and then we headed to Chez Black on the beach front at Positano harbour for some more carbs at dinner time.

Today, we are catching a ferry to Amalfi, the town.

 

 

 

 

 

It is sunny again today, and the sea is glimmering once again in the sun, this morning, on the Amalfi coast, Italy. This kangaroo is bouncing with la dolce vita – the sweet life.

Yesterday, we made the most of the exquisite beauty of Positano, and the vantage point of our hotel: perched high on a rocky outcrop, with uninterrupted views north towards Positano, with its black volcanic beach and brightly painted terraced houses tumbling down the cliff, and to another smaller town to the south, Praiana.

It is a jewel of an area. Years ago when I was working for Clyde & Co, a law firm in the city, a well travelled American told me that of all the places he had visited, he thought that the Amalfi Coast was the most beautiful. He had not been to Australia!

Almost twenty five years ago, Geoff and I travelled to Rome to celebrate my thirtieth birthday. We met up with Greg and Mary Beth Hopp, who had just stayed at our current hotel. Greg was an attorney for a Chicago law firm we were partnering in a big piece of litigation for Lloyd’s, the insurance market.

Later a postcard of a Majorcan tiled bench at the hotel, with panoramic views of Positano, arrived on our doormat in London. We resolved to one day come here. It has taken twenty five years, but better late than never. And it was worth the wait.

After making our way out of the industrial area that blights the Napoli Bay, then passing the Sorrento coastline, we were finally winding our way along the hairpin bends of the Amalfi coast. There is no room to breath on these roads. On one side is sure death beyond the barrier, and on the other side, the cars shave you as they go past. Most of the cars have dents in them from bumping each other.

So many times in life, the reality of a holiday destination, after endless dreaming (and now looking on Tripadvisor), has failed to live up to expectations. How many times has the hotel depicted in brochures, and now on the internet, edited out: the busy road, the fag ends in the sand, the scuff marks on hotel walls, the close proximity of other hotels, the construction site behind the hotel, the smallness of the pool compared to the landscape photo you gazed at, or the damp in the corner of the bathroom?

The hotel surpassed our expectations, both inside and out. You arrive in a pretty carpark at street level. Then you are led down hibiscus and rosemary lined stairs, showing off the wow factor of the view, where you are greeted at reception by polite, but warm, staff. Inside, the interior was traditional and comfortable Italiano.

 

Yesterday, we swam in the sapphire sea, and we played tennis with, and were beaten by, an American couple from California. It is 350 steps down to the tennis court and an outcrop of rock where you swim from. You pass immaculate terraced vegetable and flower gardens on the steep descent; all used in the hotel kitchen.

You can take the lift back up! This morning Geoff, on the way down, passed a couple on their way back up the steps. He commented that were keen. She replied, “How much did you eat last night?” She was working off the food she’d eaten the night before. And she added, “I intend to eat the same again tonight.” You could easily get fat in a place like this.

Today, we shall relish the privilege of making a dream come true.

Today the sun is making diamonds on the water. We are on the Amalfi coast in Positano. It is almost heaven here. Mountains, previously of a volcanic nature, plunge directly into the sea from a great, perilous height. There is no fertile plain in between. The beaches are almost black, but the crystal clear water is a deep sapphire blue.

It is in stark contrast to Naples, where we have been since Friday. People denigrate Naples, saying that the city is filthy, noisy, unruly and chaotic: that there is corruption, violence and crime amongst the Neopolitans. All these things are true, but its heart beats furiously; the people are volatile, just like Vesuvius, but they love with great emotion. There is nothing tepid and measured about them.

This was demonstrated from the moment we stepped off the plane and caught a taxi. A taxi driver claimed us, and then another taxi driver took offence that he had jumped the queue. They started shouting and gesticulating at each other; death looked probable. Fury seems to simmer just under the surface of most hearts along with amore.

We spent the weekend touring the city, and eating pizza and pasta. Who can adhere to the no-carbs rule in the birthplace of Hugo’s favourite food: pizza? We headed east from our hotel, opposite the Castel Dell’Ovo. To the east is the Old City and extreme poverty; to the west is where the posh people live, especially up on the hill in Vomera, with its panoramic views of the Bay of Naples.

The main route to the Old City from the castle is the Via Toledo, which is like Oxford Street. But to the north of this main thoroughfare is the Spanish Quarter, which consists of piles of tenements lining steep, narrow cobbled streets; there is laundry hanging from windows or just plonked on the street. The din of vespas is ear shattering, like heavy gun fire, and they come haring around corners, almost bowling you over like ten pins. To my astonishment, one of the fastest riders was a boy of about eight with a two year old strapped to his back. He expertly came to an abrupt holt; she clambered off, wiggled her hips and yelled “Ciao.” They were old beyond their years.

We then headed to the cloisters of Santa Chiara, with its 14th century frescoed walkways along the perimeter, and 18th century painted Majorcan tiles adorning a myriad of pillars (64 in total) and adjacent seats in the garden.

I was thrilled to find an Italian greyhound, like Domino, our beloved dog, in a number of the scenes.

It was a peaceful haven after the urban jungle we’d walked through.

We then spied a very old church in Gesu Nuovo. The exterior was ugly and plain. Inside, we were agog to find opulence beyond imagination: marble, gold, ornate frescoes adorned every inch of the floor, walls, ceiling and dome.

The next day it was raining. I wanted to go to Vomera, to see the Chelsea of Naples. What would the equivalent of a pheasant or stag look like I wondered? There was a line of taxis waiting around the corner from our hotel with no customers; everyone was at home or at church. The thing about Italians, is that they love to talk. They gesticulate, prod each others’ chests, wave their hands around, stick out their chins to make a point; they move from laughter to an argument with alacrity. The taxi drivers were making the most of dead time; they were communicating the Italian way.

Before we knew it we were bundled into the first taxi. “Where do you want to go?”, the taxi driver asked. I said, “Vomera.” He turned with a look of disgust on his face. “Why would you want to go to Vomera. I was born in Naples. I will take you to better places.” Geoff looked worried. What was the price tag? He read his mind. “Don’t worry Signor. I turn off the meter. You need to trust me.” His English was excellent. So off we whizzed. First stop Vomera. “You see. I tell you. The architecture is the same as down near your hotel. Why you want to come here?” Next stop Castel Sant’Elmo with heavenly views to the eastern mountains, like ocean liners drifting on the plains, flanked by Vesuvius on the bay. “You see that little red balcony there. I was born there,” he explained. “Now I take you to another view towards Capri.” Another spectacle. “You see. I know best.” We agreed.

From the outset, I could tell that the taxi driver was clever; he had nous. His children were professionals. Education had lifted them from the tenements. Every Sunday, the whole extended family got together. Grandparents, parents, children, aunts, uncles, the whole shebang. And they ate from 3-9pm. Antipasta, then pasta, fish, meat and then Sfogliatella, delicate pastries, with sweet ricotta wrapped in crunchy layers. My favourite!

As he dropped us back to the hotel, he kissed my hand and hugged Geoffrey. We had a bella time, and it was not too expensive. We had seen stunning, panoramic views, but we had also been handed a looking glass into the life of a Neopolitan man.

 

 

I am frantic today, as we go to Italy later: Naples, Positano and Ischia, an island, on the Amalfi coast. I have to drop Domino off at the Whippet Hotel near Gatwick on the way to the airport. I loathe leaving the children, and Domino, and going abroad. The idea that there is a sea separating us; I would need to catch a plane to reach them if there was an emergency.

I usually send Nicky Barber last minute instructions should anything go awry. She is my deputy after Geoff, and he will be with me. And then as soon as I reach the foreign destination, I finally relax.

Yesterday, I went to the sale at a friend’s house in Haslemere in aid of a local home for autistic adults: The Simon Trust. I bought some baby kit and next year’s diary. I bumped into a friend of Geoff’s that I had not seen since his fortieth birthday at Stone House, his childhood home in Kent, twenty three years ago. For reasons I can’t remember, we lost touch. I never forget a face.

Unlike many people you don’t see for decades, she hadn’t changed. I asked how her husband was. “He died sometime ago,” she replied. I had a shot of that unease you experience when you have put your foot in it. Words do nothing to alleviate the situation; all you can say is that you are sorry. I asked after her boys. They were men now.

Visiting Australia regularly over the years, I observed my brother’s boys, Ryan and Jonah, change gradually: a bit taller, a bit more mature, each time. However, twice, I have arrived to find that they have been swapped for grown men that they resemble!

It was a shock, earlier this year, to see Jonah. He had become a chiselled, handsome young man. Today is his eighteen birthday. Soon it will be Hugo’s 21st. Hugo never had a suddden burst of maturity. He ripened slowly and constantly like Neapolitan tomatoes.

Jonah is just about to finish school, and he has a couple more exams to face before he is free for a gap year, before starting Uni.

I took Domino for an early walk today, and memories of my years at Kingsgrove High School, a middle class state school in the southern suburbs, came flooding back. I was considered to be a goodie goodie. I was hardworking and responsible most of the time, but I had the naughty Potts streak from my father, Stan the Man, that would appear occasionally.

I remember being in Biology class when I was sixteen. My teacher was not beautiful, but she was shapely like Sophia Loren, who was born in Naples. She knew she had sex appeal. She would stride around with her ample bosoms on display and point at the blackboard with a wooden stick to reinforce her dialogue, and at the same time, she would stick her chest out to be admired.

During this particular lesson, she was relaying the facts about the reproduction of frogs to a mixed bunch of us. She had been my Biology teacher since I began High School, at the age of twelve, so I had been in her classroom many, many times. She had watched the boys and girls in the class go through puberty and beyond.

I was sitting on a stool behind a laboratory desk. It was at the height of summer. I remember my legs were tanned against the sky blue of my short school uniform. I was watching Ms Biology, and I could feel the silent giggles starting to erupt like Mount Vesuvius, that towers over the Amalfi coast. The more I tried to stop them erupting and making a sound, the more they welled up. I finally blew; I was  convulsed with laughter.

At first Ms Biology ignored me, but soon I was laughing so hard that I fell off my chair. I had tears pouring down my cheeks. It was a combination of being in a mixed group of teenagers with hormones raging, the talk of reproduction and Ms Biology’s provocative display of her ample bosoms.

She eventually sent me out of the classrom to stand outside in the hall yelling, “Miss Potts, will you please compose yourself?” I was still laughing out there. I would almost get the giggles under control, and then they would erupt again. After class, she came to speak to me. She didn’t reprimand me at all. She just smiled and told me to go to lunch. Maybe she knew what I found funny.

Have you ever had the urge to laugh when someone tells you really tragic news? What is that? You feel the edges of your mouth curl up in a smile. Is it embarrassment? Is it an involuntary defence mechanism to suffering? Thankfully, I had no urge to laugh when I met Geoff’s friend at the sale, and she told me her sad news.

Today the weather is fair; it is very pleasant for this time of year.

Yesterday, Anna went for a tennis lesson at the Hurlingham Club that I booked for myself, but I couldn’t make it so she went in my place.

When she was a child, I booked all sorts of fixtures for her: dentist, doctor, haircuts, tennis lessons, singing lessons, eye tests; the list went on. My wish was her command. How times change when your children come of age. Once you called all the shots! That is a thing of the past after the age of eighteen.

There is a great new coach at the Hurlingham Club, T, who was once Roger Federer’s hitting partner for grand slam matches; he warmed him up before he went on court. The tennis coaches at the club are first rate, and that includes T.

Anna tipped up to the lesson at 9 am. He was expecting me. Imagine the hidden pleasure in a gorgeous twenty two year old turning up instead of the Past Useby Date mother.

Anyway, he worked on her forehand and serve for an hour. They got chatting at the end of the lesson. We are huge Federer fans in our household, so Anna couldn’t help but ask what it was like to work with The Alltime Legend, Mr Federer.

T told Anna that he went this year as a punter to Wimbledon, and when he was walking around as part of the crowd of spectators, Federer spotted him and yelled, “Hey, T.” Apparently, the security force swarmed around him as he turned to greet the Alltime Legend, who by the way told the security to back off, it was “okay”, as he knew T.

He asked T how he’d been and gave him a pass to the Members’ area, issuing an invitation to lunch as he wanted to catch up with T’s news. HOW NICE IS THAT. Mr Federer is a gentleman on and off court.

For a moment, T glowed in the aura of Federer’s VIP world. That must have been how it felt to be part of the Royal Court in bygone times. The world, the plebs, were out there at large, but the Monarch had his/her favourite courtiers around, titled of course, part of the aristocracy. It was a club based on birth and wealth, not just wealth. Money was not enough to cut it.

Geoff father met the Queen fleetingly, as part of the Anglo-African Axis. For a moment, he stood in her sunshine. Even staunch Aussie republicans have wilted in the heat around her, despite their political beliefs. Think of all those Aussie Labour PMs who have chucked caution to the wind and tried to hug her – Paul Keating infamously breeched protocol when he put his arm around the Queen’s back. Tony Abbot also touched Prince William a couple of years back, causing the press to query whether Aussies couldn’t keep their hands off royalty. The thing is, you can look, but you can’t touch.

Today, I am visiting a Christmas sale in aid of supporting a centre for autistic adults.

It is at a friend’s house in Haselmere. There will be cake and coffee!

 

 

Yesterday, Aussie friends met our Scottish friends for dinner in our Fulham house, and they got on like a house on fire. Brexit was on the table – again. It is going to be the hot topic for ages. Will Brexit require parliamentary approval,or will the PM and her cronies be able to rely on an ancient royal prerogative?

Today, I am meeting a friend from Uni I haven’t seen in thirty years. What changes will the years have wrought? I remember her wedding – the promise of a happy future shone on her face like the warm Aussie sunshine. She always had a beaming smile. Will it still be as bright?

The Scots who came to dinner last night are in the banking world; they are City, with a big ‘C’, dwellers, in the square mile where money is made in London – not London in its geographical entirety with a small ‘c’. They taught me to ski, many moons ago, when I first married Geoff in 1989, and I entered the unchartered world of pheasants and stags.

They witnessed the Bridget Jones moment in Verbier in 1990, when I pretended that I could ski, so that I could stay with my new hubby. Instead, I skied head first into a snow drift after clumsily leaving the chairlift. They were patient like grouse looking for food, and in no time, I had the hang of it. Not a lot of style, but I could keep up with them, just. It was exhilarating and fun to be hurtling around with them.

Mr and Mrs City Dweller were the first in our group to have a baby, and the little prince was with us on this holiday, with his Norland nanny in tow. I could not get over the amount of kit this little boy required.

Fast forward two years, and the team were back on the slopes in Megeve. Last night we remembered how substandard the chalet was. You could see through the floorboards. A deadly slat of a bed fell off and narrowly missed a child’s head. By now Mr and Mrs City Dweller, and another couple, had produced more offspring. We were still childless. The amount of kit had increased exponentially. When we turned up at the airport, Mr City Dweller was clutching a baby seat and pram, rather than his Blackberry and briefcase.

We all trooped off to a Nina Simone concert one night, and we came back to find the chalet girl and chalet boy up to mischief. Instead of babysitting responsibly, they were hosting a ‘knees up’, thinking that we would be out to the wee hours. The table was strewn with empty bottles and remnants of food. They looked like they had been caught with their hands in the till.

Mr City Dweller was an amiable bloke, but he lost it in a restrained way. He used the sort of voice a Head Teacher employs when they catch you running in a no-run zone. The chalet staff jumped to their feet, and ran around cleaning up like blue arssed flies. It was the thin end of the wedge for their parents. They were fed up.

When I had children, I completely understood. Back then, it was a world I did not inhabit, where children come first.

When we caught the plane home, I glanced around to see them all fast asleep. They, and their progeny, were exhausted. Work in the City would be a doddle by comparison.