It was a grey and grim January. I was in London and between jobs: story of my life. An oligarch’s tutor is a happy one but it is also an unstable one. Jobs are short term and insecure.

An agency told me about a job in Switzerland, ‘’they are a Greek-British family and they divide their time between London and Gstaad. A brother and sister both aged 7. Might you be interested?’’ said a pukka young man on the phone.

My financial situation was such that I would have been ‘interested’ even if it had been in Afghanistan. Plus the money in this London-Gstaad job was very alluring. In fact the pupils were much too young for me to tutor effectively. But I thought it smart not to divulge that. They arranged for the father to call me.

One afternoon I was pottering around Richmond-upon-Thames. I knew the phone call was due. I darted into Caffe Nero to be out of the drizzle. I was phoned by the father – Mr. Papathomas. He spoke with a typical middle class London accent. It was not Cockney and not quite RP.

‘’Hello, George how are you?’’ said the man.

‘’I am very well thank you, Mr. Papathomas. And how are you?’’ I replied trying to sound upbeat and deferential at the same time.

He quizzed me a bit about my experience and my attitude to tutoring pupils.

‘’I can do proper sit down lessons. There can be songs and games and silly dances. I can get down on the carpet to play with them. Would you prefer a tutor to be serious and grown up or to meet the children on their own level?’’, I inquired cautiously.

‘’There is room for a bit of both I think’’, said Mr. P sounding fascinated.

‘’I am very innovative. My approach is to get to know the pupils – what makes them tick. I find out what their strengths are and what the areas they really need to develop are. In my first year of teaching an older colleague said to me that everyone has at least one topic he or she likes to speak about. Find out what that is and you can always connect with that person by asking the person to speak about that pet topic. I give ample praise and encouragement as well as practical guidance about how to get better – I give examples. I have lots of mnemonics to help them. If they make a mistake I sometimes let it drift so as not to be too discouraging. When it comes to correction it is best if they can self-correct – I would ask them is this word really spelt correctly? Most of the time the child will see that it is not and he or she will correct it. I only correct it if the child cannot.’’

‘’You are very personable I can tell that just by speaking to you’’ said Mr. P.

After 20 minutes it was decided – I would come out for a trial.

A few days later I got myself to Farnborough by train. Farnborough has the UK’s main private airport – i.e. private jets only. I had seen on the map that the airport was not too far from the railway station. I considered walking. I am glad that I splashed out on a cab in the end.

I arrived at the security barrier gate to the airport. The uniformed little middle aged jobsworth had to ask me for some special code number to be let in. This I gave.

Into the airport terminal. It was in many ways an ordinary airport terminal just that it was very small and there were only about 10 passengers there. None of them were young.

There was a camp middle aged concierge in a well pressed grey suit with red and white stripy tie, gelled mid brown hair and, if I am not mistaken, very discrete makeup. He could have been Dale Winton’s catamite.

‘’Is there anything I can do for you this morning sir?’’ he sibilated poised over me with this hands clasp in a servile attitude.

‘’Yes, please could you iron this shirt?’’, I handed one to him from my bag.

He duly returned with it a few minutes later and it was well ironed.

It was getting to departure time. I was having trouble concentrating on my law book. Then along came a bluff and heavyset man in his 50s with greying hair. He wore a ski jacket and a rumpled dark blue suit beneath it.

‘’Excuse me sir are you Mr. Papathomas?’’ I inquired anxiously.

‘’No, but I am flying him’’ the man replied in a detectable Dutch accent.

In a few minute the concierge came up to me and told me there was a car to take me to the plane. I duly left by car and in a minute it drew up at the 10 seater business jet on the runway. At the door of the jet a very slim and very pretty young air hostess greeted me. She was almost 6 foot tall in heels. Her hair was as jet black as her nails and lipstick were blood red. This contrasted almost jarringly with her snow white complexion. She was perhaps too heavily made-up.

‘’Good morning and welcome on board’’, her soprano voice said in a very strong French accent.

‘’Bonjour je vous empris’’, I replied. She was crestfallen that I had identified her as French instantly.

I boarded the jet: it was limpid and smelt aromatic. I found my seat. The door to the cockpit was open and the plump pilot from the Netherlands foostered with his controls. I was once told by an airline pilot that the pilot is just there to reassure the passengers. The whole thing is run on autopilot. One day airlines will start to fly passengers on pilotless planes. But would you board a plane without a pilot?

In a minute two more men climbed into the jet. There was a short, thin bald man of about 60 – he shorted Mr. McGoo glasses and a brown polo neck.

‘’Hello George’’ he said very quietly.

‘’Good morning are you Mr. Papathomas?’’ I said expectantly shaking his bony hand.

‘’Yes, yes’’ he said casually and then looked away.

He was accompanied by an overweight 50 something bearded man with whom he spoke French. The other man did not even glance at me and it was plain to me that he did not wish to be greeted by me.

Within seconds we were taxing down the runway. Taking off in a tiny plane is so much more exhilarating than taking off in an ordinary sized commercial passenger plane. One feels the takeoff so much more viscerally. The whiz down the runway is very brief and then it is up, up and away. It took only 30 seconds to see the green fields laid out lack a rug beneath us.

Mr. Papathomas and his interlocutor spoke sotto voce in French the whole way. I speak the language very well. I took my cue from them. This was patently not a conversation in which I should participate. They were discussing delicate business matters.

I relaxed into the flight. Soon I was dozing. I awoke later as the air hostess served sushi.

It was only an hour later when we came in over the snowy Swiss Alps and landed in a drizzling Berne.

Again a car took us to the terminal. At passport control we were the only three people.

The other man bade farewell at that point.

I was out of the building with Mr. Papathomas and heading towards his car. I relaxed into it and chatted to him amiably.

His car in the car park was a space age one. It was very low and aerodynamic. I tried to open the door.

‘’It opens vertically’’ he said softly. So it did.

I saw into the motor. My feet were almost at ground level in this 2 seater.

‘’I have always been into fast cars, fast boats, fast this that and the other’’ he explained.

‘’I see’’, I said deferentially.

‘’Let me tell you. My wife and I – we are Greek. But I was born in London. She was born in Cyprus but came out when she was little. Anyway we were unable to have children. So we adopted a Russian boy and girl from birth. They are not natural sister and brother. They were born only 6 months apart. They know that they are adopted but they do not understand it yet’’, he kept his eyes on the road.

We sped through lovely Swiss landscape. The oncoming darkness hardly dimmed the splendor of the pine forests, the icy rivers and the snow covered fields. There were some classic wooden Swiss chalets. Being Switzerland everything was spotless. It is a land of narrow dales and steep mountains. There were numberless sharp twists and turns to negotiate.

At last we came to a large hotel in the middle of a luxury resort town named Gstaad. I was let out by him and told to go and check-in. A room had been reserved. He would be back for me in the morning. I did as I was instructed.

There was another strikingly nubile young lady on reception. She had a face with skin so perfect it was as if she had never frowned. She was tall and thin without being too thin. She wore a perfectly while blouse and disappointingly demure black trousers.

‘’Bon soir. J’ai une reservation sur le nom de Callaghan’’, I said essaying to suppress by RP accent.

She tapped something into the computer. ‘’Yes, I can see Mr. Callaghan’’ she said in English in her Swiss-French accent, ‘’Mr. Papathomas has reserved for you?’’

My public school accent had betrayed me.

In a minute I was up in my room. It was not large but it was very comfortable. There were bare wooden walls. They were going for an old style Swiss aesthetic.

Later I went downstairs to dine. I ordered a Swiss steak.

It was about to come when I got a call. Change of plan. I was to come to the house that evening. Otherwise I would have almost no time to meet the children next morning. Be outside the hotel in 10 minutes.

I informed the head waiter that I would not be eating the steak after all.

‘’Ok but you still have to pay for it – it cooked now’’ said the thickset middle aged man in flawless English. I signed for it and dashed off.

I was outside the hotel. The night sky was snowing silently.

I looked out across the deserted streets. There were many fine looking hotels and houses shining.

A mini bus drew up. Out of it stepped a plump, swarthy, middle aged man – his black hair was flecked with grey and he was clean-shaven. Stupidly I ignored him.

‘’Good evening – excuse me. Is your name George?’’ he said in a Greek accent?

‘’Yes, it is. Are you from Mr. Papathomas?’’, I asked eagerly.

A moment later I was in the van and we were winding out way up the snowy mountain to their mansion.

Five minute later we came to some low metals. Gates. They opened slowly. In we drove. I was let out by a large house.

Ding dong. I pressed the bell.

A good looking blonde lady of about 35 opened it. She was of ordinary height and was on the slim side.

‘’Hello George and good evening my name is Katerina’’ she said in a cute German accent.

‘’Gruezi! Guten Abend gnadige Frau. Wie geht es ihnen?’’, I said as I shook her manicured hand.

‘’Vielen gut danke. Aber ich bine eine Deutschin und nicht eine Schweizer Deutscherin’’ she corrected me.

I had used the Swiss-German salutation and not the Standard German one.

There was a lion skin rug in the entrance hall. I am sure it was genuine.

There was a stone floor. The place was finely furnished and everything seemed new but for some well-preserved antiques.

I was ushered into the drawing room. Several people milled around.

Mr. Papathomas introduced me to his wife.

Mrs. Papathomas was about the same vintage as her spouse. She had had cosmetic surgery. The affect was not displeasing. She was a slender and short woman dressed in camel colours. Her dark blonde locks were carefully tied back.

‘’Meet Jamal’’ said Mrs. Papathomas.

She introduced me to a mixed race black-white man of about 30. He stoop 6’4’’ and his enormous muscles showed through his clothes.

Jamal’s iron fist pumped me. He was a very forward and immensely self-assured chap.

‘’I am their personal trainer. People said that they did not get enough exercise in when they travel. So I set up a new programme – travel with your trainer’’, he said loudly.

Jamal was all positivity. I had been a trifle anxious but he relaxed me.

I often made decorously self-deprecating remarks. He always told me I was too hard on myself.

I was introduced to two Italian architects. She was in her 50s and he was in her 40s. It happened to be the lady’s birthday. She was tall and had mid brown curly hair – blatantly died. She was rather tanned. The man was palish and had a thin beard and receding hairline. I conversed relaxedly with them in Italian. I was unsure if they were a couple. Later I discovered that they were not.

I met a shortish Cypriot man in a blue blazer and red silken tie – his whole outfit was by far the most formal of anyone there. He was about 40, tubby and had dense jet black hair.

His wife was a blonde Russian woman who was easily 10 years younger than him. Her English was limited so we spoke in my bad Russian. I have never mastered the anfractuosities of Russian accidence. Russian grammatical cases are still a mystery to me.

Finally I was brought around the corner into another drawing room with a woolly white rug on the floor. I met a dark skinned young Greek woman who was a teacher. Her English was excellent.

The Greek teacher said, ‘’I do some Greek lessons with the kids. If they take on you then you will do English. Ok, Mr. Papathomas said to try and engage with them now.’’

I got down onto the carpet and attempted conversation with the children as naturally as I could which was not very. I felt gauche. It was an artificial situation. Careful to speak quietly and in a slightly high pitch I introduced myself and I spoke to the children about the toys they were playing with.

The children largely ignored me. I cannot blame them. How would I have felt had I been in their position?

There was another little boy there – Leonides. He was the son of the other Greek man. I discovered it is pronounced Lay o NEE daze. I had always said lee ON e dass. It made me think of the co-king of the Spartans.

I spoke to the mother about the Greek books there. I read some of the titles aloud.

‘’How come you can read Greek?’’ she was astounded.

‘’Oh I can just figure it out from the Cyrillic alphabet because I speak Russian’’ I said as nonchalantly as I could.

Then we dined.

Fish was served. I had been offered meat.

‘’He doesn’t like fish’’ said the father.

I chatted to the other Greek man. It was mainly about the First World War. He asked how many were slain. I said 16 million. He misheard it as 60 million. I thought it best not to tell him that he was mistaken. He said that you think of the cost of educating a person and then it was all wasted.

Mr. P decided to hold forth. He related some supposedly mirthful tale. I did my damndest to guffaw at the right moments along with the others. He was a decent raconteur but his stories of yesteryear were not that droll.

After dinner the children were to be put to bed. Once they were in their pajamas Mr. P summoned me to their room.

I noticed the images of Orthodox saints all around the bedroom. It was a comfortable and well equipped bedroom but not as enormous or luxurious as you might have thought for a family of such affluence. He told them a tale about his headmistress when he was little. They listened attentively. Then it was time to say their orisons. Before they did so Mr. P. said whatever you give to others God will give you back tenfold.

‘’That is not a bad deal’’ he philosophized in a very soft voice.

I did not share my reflection that if you were donating to charity solely because you wanted a recompense from the Almighty then there was no altruism or virtue in your benefaction. It would have been churlish to treat them to his wisdom.

Then they were on their knees with eyes tight shut, palms together and fingers pointing heavenwards. The boy extemporized his prayer. He addressed the Most High: ‘’Dear God – you are amazing…’’

Later I was dispatched back to my lodgings.

Next morning after brekker I was summoned to the house once more.

I was brought into a side room for an informal interview with Mr. and Mrs. The room was splendidly furnished with silverware, statutes, a marble table, antique armchairs and oil paintings. There were many images of ships including container ships. I got the impression that that was how they made their loot.

‘’We have a yacht in Cyprus – I call my son captain when we are on it’’ said Mr. P.

‘’Should I call him captain too?’’, I said gamely.

‘’No, that is strictly only for me’’ he said.

‘’I see’’, I said a little disappointed.

‘’We are drinking juice all the time – Jamal has us doing that’’, said Mr. P as he and his lady wife held tankard of some horrid vegetable juice.

They asked me for my philosophy of education.

‘’You have to ask what it is you consider to be a good education. Is it just exam grades? Is it to have cultural enrichment and sporting achievement? Or is it to be happy? Or is it to make friends and contacts? You might be able to do all these things but you ought to list them in order of priority? I tutored a lot of Koreans and they cared about grades and nothing else. They achieved a lot academically but were deeply unhappy and often had not cultural or sporting achievements. They were joyless and often obese. Exam grades in themselves do not make for happiness or a successful career. It is a bit like making money. What is the purpose of the money? It is to be enjoyed.’’

They looked away out the window and across the snowy valley below and nodded ruminatively.

The family divided their time between London, Gstaad and Cyprus.

They noted that they found out I had my own educational consultancy. In fact that was going nowhere.

I said by to the Russian lady, ‘’Sledyushi raz mi govorim po russki’’.

She was thrilled to hear someone speak her native tongue however poorly.

Then it was into the minibus with Jamal, the children and a chubby British nanny. The brunette nanny said hardly a word but smiled like a Cheshire cat.

I was being driven to Geneva Airport. I am unsure where they were bound for.

I tried to speak to the children a little. We counted in French. I told them about the Swiss Flag when we saw it – being only one of two perfectly square ones in the world. They found this supremely dull. It was plain to me that I had failed to connect with them.

Jamal was very full of himself. He spoke of his constant partying in the United States – of flying back just for one night of it.

We drove down the valleys and the snow thinned out. There were some brown fields and some deciduous forests quite bereft of verdure. At length with came to the shimmering surface of Lake Geneva. It made me think of Le Rosey – the most expensive school in the world. It has campuses in Gstaad for skiing and one by Lake Geneva for the summer. We had driven between them in an hour. I had applied their once speculatively.