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 Things started to go wrong one sunny afternoon high up in the Bernese Oberland in Switzerland. I was skiing with friends down an empty slope. It was warm enough to ski in shirtsleeves and the snow was just right. It was ten years ago. There was little to disappoint up there - the surrounding mountains are the most spectacular in the Alps, dominated by the towering masses of the Eiger and the Jungfrau. The sun was shining from a cobalt sky. The birds were singing. I thought I was fit and healthy and I was having a good time with friends. But there was a little niggle. It felt as though I had pulled a muscle at the top of my left thigh. I couldn't place the injury and put it down to the spontaneous aches and pains of being nearly sixty. I was at the back of the group at the time when we came round a good tight bend and there in front of us were two large mounds like ocean rollers stretched across the slope. There is nothing quite like flying through the air on skis in perfect cont