Just reminiscing on times past with an old mate, Peter White from Méribel about Geneva transfers.

We used to work for what is now a well known and quite possibly well respected ski company. Twenty five years ago it was a string and safety pin job, barely functioning on the inside, but with a marketing strategy that used to amaze us with its bare faced cheek and bludgeoning optimism.

Part of our job was to run the fleet of ex-government works vans bought in bulk from England to Méribel. They were totally unsuited for the mountains and things were always going wrong. Our job was to ferry the 'guests' from chalet to slope and collect fresh cannon fodder from Geneva on Saturdays, after tipping out the dazed and bewildered 'guests' from the week before. One sunny Saturday in April, and I remember it now as though it was yesterday, I offloaded eight barely alive punters at the airport entrance. I then drove to the furthest end of the car park. This was to protect the incoming punters' sanity for as long as possible, even for a few extra minutes.

They weren't much better than this

I welcomed the new lot with necessary enthusiasm and escorted them to the van - brown, dented and with a distinct offside lean. They stopped their gay chattering and stood mesmerised as I made some witty remark about the premier taxi service. Now these vehicles had sliding doors for the passengers, and as the eight catatonic victims stood there in a semi circle, I pulled the door open with a flourish. Instead of stopping it flew off the runners and skittered across the car park like a puck on an ice hockey rink.

To cut a very long story short, they eventually helped me put the door back - it had to be tied from the inside with some string - and we drove up to Méribel. Their troubles had only just begun...

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