“I’m intrigued to know your position on the advancement of far right parties in European politics”, isn’t going to be a line I’ll lead with as I meet you in arrivals having just fought my way through multitudes of ski wielding nutters in the vain hope of finding you. With my name spelt wrong and scrawled with a barely legible hand in fading felt-tip pen it’s proving a challenge.

We’re on our way to the mountains – logic dictates that snow is a common bond that we share.

Let’s face it, I’m looking for an interesting conversation too, but we are on our way to the mountains, logic dictates that snow is a common bond that we share.

I’m British, meaning the weather is a fall back option when I’m meeting someone I’ve never met. Especially someone that I’m slighted intimidated by considering your evident ruggedness and beard growing ability. That and a fear that I’ve just put my life in the hands of someone who looks a cross between a Bernese mountain dog and the stoner kid that dropped out of school.

Hell, for all I know, you could BE the stoner kid that dropped out of school. Help me out here! Of course I’ve been checking the weather forecast. I’ve been getting Whitelines and the BBC weather site on the banned website list at work as the strain and excitement builds to that one week out of 50 when I can make it out to the mountains.