High life
The great escape
Taki
Gstaad There is a fin de saison kind of feeling around here, with many friends having returned to London and points elsewhere. This never ceases to amaze me. Why do people who can afford to run their busi- nesses from anywhere — even Rwanda rush to Saanen and into their private planes in order to join city hoi polloi once the Ides of March approach.
We have not seen a cloud in Gstaad in more than a month, which means the snow is almost gone, but snow has never been the be all and end all for Gstaad sporting types. The hotels, restaurants and bars are still open, so why the sudden flight? I guess man is a creature of habit, which is why I'm staying put. There is nothing more depress- ing than a city after one's been in a resort for a while.
Especially a place like Gstaad. There are no traffic jams, no road rages, certainly no crime. Last week Bill Buckley forgot his skis which he had left leaning against a telephone pole. He then got the flu, stayed in bed a couple of days, then didn't ski because he addressed Le Rosey on a Wednesday, went to Paris the following day, and on the Friday he arrived at the Eagle Club with borrowed skis thinking his had been stolen. That's when I reminded him that perhaps he forgot them on the bottom of the last mountain we had skied together. Sure enough he found them as he had left them one week earlier.
Bill Buckley is not absent-minded, he simply works his brain too hard and non- stop. He is just finishing the 34th book he has written in Gstaad — out of a total of 38 — on an average stay of six weeks. His books are written in the afternoon, after skiing, while his columns, lectures and vari- ous other responsibilities — mainly televi- sion — are discharged in the morning. No wonder he forgot his skis.
Better yet, he forgot Ken Follett's work. Last Christmas he was sailing off Barbuda just at the time Princess Di was publicly working out on the beach. While having a drink in Club K, I believe, a crew-cutted middle-aged man in casual dress addressed him: 'I'm Ken Follett,' he said, 'and Ed McBain is also staying here. Now that is a coincidence, isn't it, you, me, McBain?'
There is no more polite man than Bill, nor anyone more gracious, so he immedi- ately told Ken Follett that he (Bill) though The Fist of God one of the best suspense- espionage novels he had ever read. Follett said thanks, but he hadn't written it. Bill apologised and tried again. Follett hadn't written that one either. Then it came to him. Bill told Follett he still winced at the review our Ken had given one of Buckley's thrillers in the Listener. No go. Follett had never reviewed Bill's thriller. So, under the circumstances, the only thing left for Bill to do was to congratulate Ken on whatever he had written and wish him a happy new year.
Freddy Forsythe should not take umbrage. Bill loved The Fist of God but momentarily forgot the author. Ken Fol- lett, or Lord Follett, as he shall become just as soon as his buddies in the Labour Party take power, shouldn't be angry either. What's a different title or two among the lot — his lot — which preaches total equality and pretends that a Shake- speare sonnet and the illiterate rhymes of Maya Angelou are one and the same. (How can I ever forget Angelou's verse- mongering during the swearing in of the Draft Dodger? 'Greece, peace, fleece, grease, cease, obese, release . . . and so on. And they all fit.') But back to Gstaad. And no crime. Alas, it's starting. We've had no muggings yet, but some swarthy types — mostly from ex- Yugoslavia — have been trying to break in and grab what they can. A friend of mine chased one away last week, and one tried to get into my chalet only yesterday. Heav- en knows we're paying though the nose, so I think the locals should hire more fuzz to ensure nobody kills the golden goose.
Unlike what happened in Cadogan Square last week, where a lady undergoing her fifth chemotherapy treatment bravely fought off a large black man who broke Into her house during broad daylight and ripped the jewels off her fingers. Mrs Lucy Doxford is a brave woman, but the Cado- gan Estate should do something more than just raise their rents. It should provide 24- hour protection by hiring private guards who will be electronically connected to each and every flat in case they're needed. Go ahead and spend the moolah, Lord Chelsea. You have nothing to lose but a few pounds which you will recover after your next rent rise.
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