The sun shines 300 days a year in Aspen. Occasionally there’s a bad day. Very occasionally there’s a very bad day. And today was hideous.

So I went skiing. Not because I am coocoo but because two close pals were just out from New York and they were desperate to get on their skis. Idiots.

Harry, the prig, says there’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing choices. Well, I own all the gear in the world and, true, I was not cold. Despite freezing temperature, blinding snow and winds that blew the snow like knives. And, of course, the howling of the wolves at the edge of the abyss.

The gondola rocked sickeningly in the gale…it stopped all the time…it never more than crawled along. Terrifying. When we got out, the snow HURT. And the skiing was wretched. We were almost blown up-hill by the blast. No powder…all blown off. Only the ice remained. And you couldn’t see for squat. And I had a teeny hang-over.

After one run, the gondola shut down for the day. I went home to bed.