There is something very civilized in non-oppressive landscapes. The only thing one sees in the Alps are lakes and mountains. And forests. Just like Birmingham on a rainy afternoon. The truest thing Sartre ever said was that hell is other people. Hell for me is modern man. Dressed by Armani with the manners of a footballer. Even worse is the modern celebrity. No looks, no talent, no brains, no class, no pedigree, and no likeability. Compare my old friend Roger Moore, a real star and gentleman with, say, some of those Hollywood whippersnappers who resemble the homeless in their expensive couture rags. Last Saturday night at the Palace Hotel bar, I was close to getting involved with such a type, as he leaned on me for no reason except my white hair and age. With my heavy glass about to make contact with his fleshy Slav face, he backed off. The nineteen-year-old I was romancing got scared and disappeared among her age group. My hollow victory went unnoticed.

It didn’t get any better. I ran into William Astor, who brought up Bruern Abbey, his uncle’s pile I had once rented so I could give parties and not disturb the neighbors. William likes the sound of his own voice and can be quite snobbish—as well he should be, being a fourth-generation descendant of a German butcher who did well in America. His wife and children could not be nicer, but I have yet to hear Astor not mention his background. Brit snobbism may still work in the shires, but not among some of us who remember them only asking for handouts and freeloading when a Brit could only take out twenty pounds from the rainy island.

Still, it’s better than the frosty contempt and withering looks one gets when skiing with dogs. The mother of my children takes my two dogs everywhere, and the farmers don’t like it. The canines grab a baby chicken or two at times, as hunting dogs tend to do, and she has to whip out her wallet and pay right then and there—or else. Good old Helvetia is a wonderful country but there’s no free lunch. And the charity ball is becoming the thing to do for social climbers in the mountains. New York started it, London followed, and now the charity ball has come to the Bernese Oberland. Jewelers are the prime suspects. Thick envelopes arrive in the post inviting one to attend functions for (you name it) at a price. How much money ends up for those in whose name the ball is given is a matter discussed as much as that of the crazy aunt in the attic. Like the old Olympic slogan, what matters is taking part. At times I’d rather be in Nottingham on a rainy afternoon.