Swell times

Gstaad

I went to a wonderful party, three days of a non-stop feast. Although not at the Palace, mere hoi polloi were excluded, in theory at least.

There was no sign of a Kate or a Mick — they must have forgotten the date. Actually, they were not invited, but Topper (who no one could say is a pleb — well bred is his motto, or is it well fed?) was there, as were Freddy and Minnie and Lolly and Bunny and George. I couldn’t have liked it more.

Sorry, Sir Noël, but I write this rather hung over, the Muse having silently slipped away in the snow at around six-thirty this morning on my way home. Some 430 swells flew over the Atlantic for Philip Radziwill’s marriage to Devon Schuster, his childhood sweetheart, a romantic but spectacular wedding in the snow-covered village of Gstaad, where the groom’s parents have a chalet. The timing was perfect. Gstaad resembles Yemen during the holidays, but then things quieten down until the February rush that turns this beautiful Alpine town into Beirut, with a bit of downtown Moscow thrown in for good measure. So, in the middle of January, while hoi polloi were back chasing the not-so-mighty buck, the swells arrived for some serious partying among the sheltering mountains of the Bernese Oberland, the German part of good old Helvetia which I love. (French-speaking Switzerland I find bogus-chic, and the Italian part slightly Sloaney-phony.)

What a pleasure it was not to run into anime-style creatures with exaggerated cheeks, lips and breasts. No pouting Jade Jaggers stinking up the place with their self-importance, certainly no desperate, publicity-seeking Paris Hilton types; just a lot of young good-looking people having fun. The parents of the groom are very old and good friends of mine.