Gstaad is a Swiss village surrounded by dramatic mountains. It’s super-chic but very pleasant in spite of that. They’re fastidious about seeing all buildings look like traditional Swiss chalets of yesteryear.

The picturesque hotel Olden was built in 1899. It’s owned by Bernie Ecclestone, who also owns Formula One motor racing. Like my least favourite airline boss, BA’s wee Willie Walsh, Bernie is tiny (will I now be arrested by the Small People PC Brigade?) and is often photographed with his large, lovely wife. I asked the general manager, Ermes Elsener, if Bernie ever showed up to help in the kitchen. “He comes twice a year,” said Mr Elsener.

In the excellent downstairs front restaurant (as opposed to its other restaurants) the menu informs, “Unless otherwise specified all meat is of Swiss origin.”

I recently quoted Orson Welles in The Third Man movie saying the Swiss invented the cuckoo clock. A lot of readers wrote that the Germans invented the cuckoo clock. Contradicted by other readers who assured me Austrians invented the cuckoo clock.

I remain somewhat isolated in firmly believing the cuckoo clock was invented in Holland Park, just a few doors from where I live. Debating important matters like this keeps us intellectually active. I can’t remember if there was a cuckoo clock in the beautifully panelled dining room of the Olden, but if there wasn’t our Bernie should get one.

There were definitely two Sealyham terriers present. That breed was developed in the mid-19th century by Captain John Edwards. There were also people smoking. Cigarettes were invented by the Mayan Indians in the 9th century. That’s according to Wikipedia, the internet encyclopaedia. But since it has pronounced me dead and published my obituary twice in the last few months, it’s not totally reliable.

Back at the Olden Geraldine had tuna carpaccio with extra virgin lemon olive oil followed by oriental salad with sautéed prawns. I had mountain dried beef (Swiss mountain of course) and shaved aged cheese. Swiss cheese of course. Then a gourmet salad with beef steak tartare perfumed with cognac. I’m not sure if it was Swiss cognac. Finally I scoffed iced capuccino Italian style. A sort of cold capuccino mousse. Everything was superb.

Geraldine tasted my mousse and said, “Aww!” Then added, “That isn’t fattening, there’s only white of egg mixed up.”

“There’s no question from time to time she’s totally bonkers,” I dictated, as Geraldine stuck her spoon in and grabbed some more.

I can also recommend to you restaurant Hecht in Faulensee on Lake Thun, near Interlaken. Lovely view of the lake and mountains.

The menu was only in German. Outside it said, “English spoken”. Whoever spoke English was off that day, but we muddled along and got some felchen fillets, a lake fish. Geraldine had hers grilled, mine were fried.

To start I had homemade tomato soup, Geraldine had tomato and mozzarella. The chocolate mousse dessert was fine. I drove for miles to get there but never saw any litter. Roger Moore’s son Geoffrey, a Gstaad resident, told me the reason was because the fines for littering in Switzerland are so heavy. Should be here too.

Now to something completely different. Me. Or rather my cars. As I’m £6m in debt I decided a third Rolls Royce was essential. So I bought a beautiful 1992 black Rolls Corniche convertible with beige upholstery. This was found for me – and he wouldn’t let me pay him a penny for the considerable time spent – by my hero, Manchester Rolls car dealer, Steve Gallimore. It came from a private seller in Tolworth, Surrey.

I told you a lucky reader would get a bargain with my all black (interior and exterior) 2001 Saab 9.3 convertible. It had many extras, including a sports conversion, and had registered only 4,700 miles.

PC Steve George, 12 years with the Metropolitan police in Croydon, was the lucky buyer. He brought me £8,800 in a brown envelope. He also offered this joke. A man is barred from a night club because he’s not wearing a tie. He goes to his car but can’t find one, only a jump lead. He ties it round his neck and returns. The doorman says, “You can come in but don’t start anything.” Made me laugh.

PS: The reason I sold is, Geraldine didn’t think the Saab was grand enough for me. When Lady Madeleine Lloyd-Webber once admired it, I pointed out, “Saabs are supposed to be for hairdressers, estate agents and drug dealers.” “Perfect for you then,” said Madeleine.

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