In praise of January

According to a little bird, Boris has gone from brilliant to bawd, and according to me this village has gone from unlivable to perfect in one easy week. The slopes are empty, the snow is excellent, the restaurants now take reservations, and the slobs are visible but not dominant in town. If April is the cruellest month, according to T.S. Eliot, January is the nicest one as far as yours truly is concerned. The liver has a break, the insect-eating grinning imbeciles have gone back down to the cities, and my brain cells are beginning to function again. It’s only a short break, three weeks, and then the mobs return, like scum coming to the surface — until late in March, that is.

Back in the good old days, those not appearing in the Gotha dismissed or hid what they’d been before (Switzerland may be neutral but Gstaad and St Moritz were snobby as hell). Those were pompous times, I admit, but everyone was kept in line by the loftiness of the leaders. Then we all suddenly became equal, with money replacing social status, and soon after that life became a free-for-all. Very rich Gulf camel-drivers and even richer Russian gangsters replaced the old order just as the Bolshies did back in 1917. The Eagle club erected walls to defend the old-timers, but there were too many of us already inside for comfort.

In January, however, it’s like old times, although while skiing yesterday I noticed some pretty awful types emerging from a club started by a ghastly sociopath who used to invest his clients’ money with Madoff. Never mind, the weather is perfect, the snow is even better, and everyone except for me has caught the virus. (Wife, son, grandchildren and staff.)