Every year when it snows in London and all is beautifully white and muffled my mind wanders to the mountains, where the snow is much creamier and the beauty unparalleled. I willed it to snow this year, and all that hype on the radio promising a white wonderland finally materialized for a couple of measly hours.
It was then that I felt the initial pull to go find more of the same, if not better. Last weekend the ache became unbearable. The search was on for open skies and endless mountain peaks.
It’s strange how a pattern has developed in my free and single life where, like clockwork every five weeks, cabin fever sets in. It’s quite disturbing. When that feeling stirs in the lower cortex of my brain I know that it is time for me to leave, or else my mind most certainly will. I jump on any plane or train going anywhere at any time and any price.
How would I cope with a needy family? Men have this feeling with sex and marriage. The idea of being trapped in the same bed with the same woman for the rest of their lives instils fear into even the homeliest of men. I have that same fear - not with sex - but with my insatiable appetite for travel. Same sort of thing really.
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The Alps beckon in March. Contacting my very generous ex-flatmate, I announced my arrival, with friend, into Geneva within 24 hours. He immediately empathised, having recently left London for a superior quality of life in Geneva. This involves skiing every weekend in the winter and waterskiing or sailing in the summer. Definitely a wise move. Even wiser move is to have a Porsche and a chalet in Verbier
And so it was on Friday evening that we purred into icy Verbier, past Le Croq and the Milk Bar, to have a drink and a dance at the infamous Farm Club. Apparently a few weeks back Prince William was seen getting on down on the dance floor. Wish I’d seen that one.
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Nudging through the long line of men, all with slicked back hair and sludge green padded jerkins, we had a great time with all the banter and unusual good humour for a nightclub queue - two women tossing around on a sea of testosterone. Within minutes we were spotted and whisked through the large wooden doors, the inferior sex left out in the Arctic cold. Quite a good feeling for a change, though secretly I would have quite liked to have stayed outside too.
By the early hours the place was teeming with predatory men - all scanning the dance floor desperately. It was an older bunch - the rich banker variety. My ex-flatmate was sent on a mission, leaving us girls to conduct an experiment. With the ratio of ten men to every girl, Verbier was exactly the place to pull. So how long might it take for those circling sharks to take the bait?
We waited … and waited – 20 minutes later we were still sitting alone. Our experiment had bombed! Why had we not been successful? My only explanation was that we were at a table with a bottle of champagne, and that spells “TAKEN”. Only a St George type would venture into that cave. And there weren’t many of them around. Or perhaps we should be wearing tight tops with cleavage, like the few competitors around?
All of a sudden everything went belly up – literally. One minute we were clinking champagne flutes – the next, we were banging on the back door of the club begging to come back in.
Slower than slow motion my ex-flatmate - a little the worse for wear – had begun to sway, eventually falling backwards and smashing into the adjacent table - arms and legs flailing. Bottles and glasses catapulted into the air. And to add insult to injury, as if from nowhere three Swedes started pummelling him. I always saw the Swedes as peaceniks. No more.
Ex-flattie, jumping up in surprised defence, started throwing air punches just in time for bouncers to pick him up and deposit him in a huge snow drift at the back of the club. Totally undignified for a 36-year-old man. Grabbing our coats, we reluctantly left our drink-laden table and scuttled to the rescue.
Back at the chalet we spent the next two hours nursing his wounded pride and bleeding lip. He indignantly parroted the injustice of it all. Revenge became paramount - obsessing about sorting them all out that very night. We clucked around - making camomile tea and lighting fires to calm the angry beast. This was not quite how I had imagined relaxing in the mountains - dabbing an ice pack on a bloody lip. Do men ever grow up?
Salvation of the Week
The train ride from Martigny to Geneva past Lausanne and Montreux.
- With respect to your idea of men looking for 40-year-old women, as opposed to 25yo "floozies", I guess this is a bit different ... but I have my own age range which you may be interested in. Being a 22-year-old male, my boundaries are set between going out with 17 and 32-year-old girls/ladies. Is that different from a 32-year-old male looking to go out with a woman in her 40s? Probably. But by how much? Regards, Tom Clark, Cambridge
Well I’m one of the boys ... at 23 years old. Now I’m trying to work out if I define a woman as over 40 and a nice "lass" as under 28. Hmmm, in between are just the ones that hold up Tesco’s queues. Regards, Colin Taylor
I enjoy your column immensely. I am a single in the New York City area, which means that I've similar laments, even if I'm on the other side of the Atlantic and the gender divide (and damned if I know which gulf is larger). As to the problem of your eligible bachelor friend with the frilly underwear (where did you say this pool was again?!). You yourself came up with the solution two columns previously. Remember how you remarked how cosy your lesbian friends looked? Instead of viewing her as a threat you should have swam over and made eyes at her. Interpose yourself between them facing her. This would have neatly thwarted her plans while piquing the interest of the bachelor friend (admittedly for the wrong reasons, but hey...). It seems you have the inclination for mischief but not the facility. Cordially, Tom Lillis IV, New York
Single in the city: e-mail Xanadu here
Xanadu is a pseudonym
