High life
Healthy living
Tak i
Gstaad
oror some strange reason, the cows grazing above this beautiful Alpine village remind me of a certain Greek half-orphan playing the outfield in the Oval last Satur- day. And, although Swiss cows are more disciplined and give fatter milk than any others, they do seem more bored than yours truly was while grazing at Kenning-
ton. Mind you, it isn't everyone who plays his first ever match in the Oval, and with Jeff Bernard as umpire to boot. Alas, we Greeks were born to love, fight, and inherit money, not play cricket. Thus it was Giles Auty who snatched victory from the jaws of a tie on the last ball of the evening. And thank God for him. Had the good guys lost, I would have had to spend two weeks in the Coach and Horses, whereas, had we drawn, only one. But all's well that ends well, and there was no duck, golden or otherwise, for the suddenly rich little Greek boy — rich until later that evening, that is.
In order to celebrate the first three runs ever scored by a Greek at the Oval, I took a few friends to dinner before catching an early morning flight to God's country. When I returned home I found my flat had been burgled, and some extremely valu- able things my father had left me gone. I
had been a fool to bring them to London, especially as my flat had already been
broken into twice before — the last time while I was in prison — but such are the joys of the nouveau riche.
Just as bad was the fact that the crook stole a briefcase with all my notes of the last ten to 15 years, research notes, and 100 pages of a manuscript for my next book about the Sixties, Seventies and Eighties in Paris, London and New York. Needless to say, I kept no copy, so that's another book which will probably never see the light of day.
Given the fact that the thief struck as quickly as he did, I suspect it must be someone that knows my movements quite well. But who? Libel laws prevent mh from publishing the suspects, but suffice it to say that more than half of them are titled and well off. So, if the thief happens to steal The Spectator and read this, I will give a reward of four figures if my briefcase — it's more of an airline pilot's case — is re- turned without having been edited. (No questions asked, either.)
Otherwise, my two days in London were great fun. Here in Gstaad, however, I have the time for recent events to sink in, and it's melancholia hour. Voltaire called mountains stupid, and in a way they are. That's what makes them so restful. Phoeni- cian, Greek and Roman culture emerged from the Mediterranean sea, but the sea ain't restful. In fact, when you are sad, the sea is downright gloomy. What is not gloomy is the Gstaad summer crowd. It's made up mostly of young and sporting Swiss, without a single socialite in sight. No rich New York Jews, no show-off Arabs, no upward mobility except for mountain climbing. My guru, Professor Van den Haag, climbs with me every day, and by next week I plan to be in better spirits in view of the healthy life I'm living.
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