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.