I have set off in style and my hair is looking fantastic, really very shiny.
The admiral and I set off merrily (and early) to drop off the car and, with only three trips around the south terminal ‘ring road’, find the valet parking section eventually and bin off the car.
After a nice, speedy check into the flight, I skip excitedly into the shopping extravaganza that is gatwick airport. It has a harrods and everything. Glancing briefly at the departures board, I notice a typo suggesting that information about our gate number is due forty minutes after the flight is due to take off.
Naturally, I ignore it, assuming it has been written by an idiot.
Three and a half hours later, we board our rather delayed flight. Taking it all in my stride and, of course, in the style of a lady, I have delicately sipped but one glass of prosecco and am feeling very jolly cheerful. The flight takes off and I immediately power down and fall asleep.
France greets us and is unmistakably, unavoidably and uninvitingly French. Semi dilapidated, graffitied to within an inch of its concrete ugliness and a season behind balmy Blighty.
Here it is most decidedly winter. Bare trees, sitting water and ugly, churned up fields with ramshackle, crumbling farm buildings fly past the windows of our coach.
We eventually arrive in val d’isere at 20:30, and I am astonished and very pleasantly surprised to find that val is utterly gorgeous. A veritable winter wonderland.
The snow is falling thick and fast (a dump of 78cm is forecast overnight), the trees are lit with twinkling lights and the buildings are a beautiful combination of creamy wood and stone.
We check into our chalet which is similarly delightful and settle down to a wonderful meal and wine in front of the fire with riveting conversation with our ski comrades.
And, most importantly, my hair still looks fabulous.