High life
Bond junked
Taki
am once again happily ensconced in the Nelson Mandela suite of the Palace Hotel, feeling far better than the brave man my chambers are named after as there is no Winnie to share them with. The snow, which this year was as rare a commodity as there are democrats in the ANC, began to fall as Nelson was freed, and it hasn't stopped since. If there is a connection, the Swiss ain't talking, but I'm sure it must have something to do with Winnie Mande- la's Swiss bank account.
The snowfall, needless to say, is bad news for apres-skiers, but as I'm still on Big Bagel time, I've managed to hit the slopes nice and early. And never have I seen better conditions. This morning, skiing with Dimitri Nabokov, son of the great Vladimir, one could go on and off the piste without feeling the difference, so light was the white stuff. And what a pleasure it is to ski with Dimitri. He is a very good'and graceful writer, a professional opera singer and a speed freak of the off-shore power boat type. On the T-bar he threatened to start an avalanche with a rendition of Don Giovanni's Commendatore, a role in which he excels.
The bad news is that Bill Buckley, our other skiing companion, fell and badly injured his wrist, as well as his nose, which put a slight damper on our high spirits. By the time we got Bill to the Nelson Mandela suite of the Saanen hospital it was dark, and we called a halt to some of the best skiing I've ever had in Gstaad.
Given the fact that this is la haute saison, there are parties galore, although I don't think the dinner given by Sotheby's last Saturday evening will soon be topped as far as fun is concerned. The host was Angus Ogilvy, on the advisory board of the auction house, unfortunately without his wife, but mercifully also without his ghastly son-in-law. The dinner was for 80 of the fattest cats in Gstaad, and I'm happy to say that I came in 80th, at least on the invitation list.
Sir Angus apart, there was Victor Emmanuel of Savoy and his wife Marina, who if there was a monarchy in Italy would be living in the Nelson Mandela suite of the Royal Palace. There was Prince and Prin- cess Nicholas Romanov, who I hope will soon be living in the Nelson Mandela suite of the Winter Palace in St Petersburg. The poor little Greek boy sat next to Mrs William Buckley and across from Rupert Hambro, an extremely nice man who I am told occupies the Nelson Mandela suite of his own bank. Further down my table was my new best friend Mr Roger Moore, Roger is a man of an infinitely forgiving nature. And here is the proof.
Nine years ago to the day, a rowdy group of Anglos consisting of Harry Worcester, Johnson Somerset, Oliver and Christopher Gilmour and the two Grenfell girls arrived in Gstaad to check the place out. On their second night we attended a dinner in our honour at which I introduced the group to Roger. It was a very gay — in the old sense of the word — dinner, and perhaps we overdid things un peu. Afterwards we joined Roger Moore and Fiona Thyssen in the GreenGo nightclub, and that is whe,re the actor's sense of humour was tested. Chris Gilmour, sitting next to him, was obviously feeling unwell because he began a long diatribe about how good a James Bond Sean Connery was as opposed to Roger. While listening in shock horror we realised that Christopher was under the impression he was talking to Connery. As did Roger. When Gilmour was through, he (Roger) smiled politely and soon departed. Like the gent that he is, he has never mentioned it, but my mantelpiece has not exactly collapsed from the weight of his invitations. Perhaps after the Sotheby's blast it will, But I won't hold my breath.
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