The snow is deep and crisp and even, the sky bluer than blue, and beneath my Black Crow skis there’s the soft hiss of fresh powder. I’m rehearsing my excuses as I carve my wiggly way down a well-upholstered piste.

‘I’ve gone skiing by mistake,’ I try out on the pure mountain air.

I’m almost embarrassed by my own excess as this is my second ski break of the year, and to go twice before Easter during a war and an energy crisis is peak first-world indulgence.

Still, as I like to say, I have not one but two Agas, ‘just not in the same house’, so what the heck. Here goes. My two ski trips in two months, then.

Last month, we rented a chalet for the annual Dawnay-Johnson family ski holiday. We played Perudo and ate hugely both on and off the mountain. The key words here: self-catering, group of 16, one week.

Anyway, when an invitation from Verbier Exclusive arrived I sort of parked it as I was already going skiing. Plus I knew when mid-March came round, I’d have only just come back from the Tarentaise (and Luxor and Paris, but nobody likes a show-off do they?).

But then, during a rare inbox hygiene session, I re-read the Verbier email. Ah. It was an invitation not just to Verbier, but to Chalet Chouqui. Different story.

As you would expect from your Best Life columnist, not only have I been to Verbs a few times, but I’ve actually stayed in Chalet Chouqui. Very nice it is too. I can still remember the moist Toblerone-and-banana cake I scoffed by the fire in my socks after a hard day bashing the slopes as if it was yesterday. I pinged off an acceptance, as you would too if you’d been before and had read this itinerary:

‘7.30 a.m. – breakfast with chef-prepared special. 9 a.m. – husky sledding. 9.30 a.m. – skiing with instructors. 2 p.m. – lunch at Dahu. 4.30 p.m. – return to Chalet for afternoon tea with home-baked treats and refreshments. 5 p.m. – après on terrace/gym or pool and spa. 7.30 p.m. – canapés and cocktails. 8.15 p.m. – dinner at Chalet Chouqui…’

Which means that soon I am on a ski lift again, in the sunshine, the poles marching past. I gaze at plump, pristine snow covering the slopes like brand-new, white, thousand-thread-count duvet covers. A logo on the pylons, in brightest red, reads Prada.

‘Not bad,’ I say to my companion, a digital journalist who only just got the last flight out of Dubai to join our little group. I keep asking her: ‘Why the UAE?’ I’ve been to Dubai and can’t understand it. ‘Why not… you know… Verbier?’

Even I could imagine moving to Switzerland, though I am a woman of but modest means. No inflation. No inheritance tax. Piffling income tax. And above all, not Dubai. Surely preferable to non-dom here, rather than in the rough neighbourhood of the Middle East?

The Swiss Alps can’t be in range of projectile missiles, I banged on, and anyway, the Iranians would never bomb or nuke a neutral country that makes milk chocolate. Nor would Vladimir Putin. It’s a tax haven and refuge for both the mullah and oligarch class. Plus, my clincher as we neared the top: Andrew and Fergie have finally flogged their chalet (to a Brit: name redacted).

My companion is not convinced. I get it. She’s young, and you need to be absolutely minted to afford a hot chocolate at Carrefour, let alone move here.

To go skiing twice before Easter during a war and an energy crisis is peak first-world indulgence

A two-bedroom apartment will cost several million euros, a decent chalet more than €20 million, and then there’s always the danger that you could find yourself on the James Blunt ski lift with one of the resort’s 24 billionaires, as he barks voice notes to his executive PAs.

To the brass tacks then, as I know you are curious.

A week at Chalet Chouqui, which sleeps a dozen or so, will set you (but not me) back from €85,000, but that includes all food and beverages, a chef, access to a cellar, drivers, concierges, masseurs and even a yoga instructor, who can put the flex back into your hips as well as your plastic.

When you consider that a suite at a top Paris hotel can cost €20,000-€30,000 a night sans TVA that’s pretty good value, if you divide it by 12… cough.

My excuse is, then, that I went as you couldn’t. I was seduced by the prospect of ‘tailored menus designed by your private chef to match your exacting needs and preferences, the 24-hour chauffeur, the in-house team of drivers on call throughout your stay…’ .

Call me a winter sports whore, but I’d already been a chalet girl once this season.

Gore Vidal said never pass up on a chance to have sex or appear on television (he should have added: ‘Or go for a pee’). My activity of choice is more frustrating, more dangerous and more fun – and Best Life’s top tip is never pass up a chance to ski.

‘Skiing is a dance, and the mountain always leads,’ one veteran Verbier ski instr-uctor told me.

Unlike John ‘not enough sex’ Betjeman, this columnist will lie on her deathbed kicking herself for not skiing even more.