As my daughter and her friend race down the ski slopes, I stay in the lodge.
I look up and out the window. The slopes framed like a postcard. Blurs of colour speed down the hills while the frosty air slips into my comfort zone when the doors open.
I look down to my book where the writer speaks of the September harvest in rural England. Rustling stalks of barley and carefully ploughed fields drawn with words that evoke a Gainsborough painting.
Two worlds collide.