After a few hours of troubled sleep, the whole house was up and raring to hit the slopes—a big mistake. After a three-hour liquid lunch at the Eagle Club, I went out and put on some other person’s skis. I went down like a fool, unable to turn as my boots were too small for the bindings. The man whose skis I took was apparently furious because he not only had his initials marked clearly on the skis, they were also the most expensive ever made. I told the sweet club secretary that the irate man should be grateful I put on his skis, since I was once a member of the alpine superpower known as the Greek national ski team. I guess that shut him up.

Then it was time for the big night and all my guests assembled in the large drawing room upstairs. Girls with names such as Sophie Russell, Hum Fleming, and Millie Allsopp giggled in their flapper outfits because I had dressed myself as a waiter instead of a swell. Debbie Bismarck took charge and soon I joined the rest looking like a true Greek gentleman with German blood, whatever that is. Downing terrific wine, I danced away the night, mostly with Kirsty under her hubby’s watchful eye. As always, the fun had to end just as the sun began to hint of its rise.

Finally it was the next day brunch on top of yet another mountain that ended the festivities. “Who is going to pay for dinner?” I yelled at Mick. “You’ve spoiled us!” Oh yes, I almost forgot—the sun never shone more bright, the snow was fast and perfect, the pistes uncrowded, the partiers civilized, well mannered, and good humored. It was the way things should be but never are because of today’s culture of cheap publicity and even cheaper celebrities. Just as we sat down to the main dinner, Mick Flick said a few words. He was in a good mood and it showed, and by good mood I don’t mean a Taki good mood, since Mick does not drink.

He told us the reason for the party was the economic gloom that has descended upon many of us here in Europe and its similarities with the Great Depression of the 1920s. “So I decided to give a party and have my friends enjoy themselves.” I can’t think of a better reason to throw a bash than to tempt fate by tripping the light fantastic—arthritis or no arthritis. Dankeschön, Mick. You look like a noble German Panzer commander—the greatest compliment I can pay—and your party made for a very happy 290 souls.