We had taken some cardboard boxes from the back of the restaurant, fashioned them into makeshift sleds, and the plan was to ride them back down the mountain.

Stephen had done this before, earlier in the year. On lunch trays. And it was at his encouragement that we were there, holding onto our bits of cardboard, looking at the fog, and wondering what might lie beyond it. For all I knew, the edge of the world might have been buried in there. The journey back down, he assured me, “will be the ride of your life.”

Looking back, I don’t know why I listened to Stephen. He was from New York. What did someone who lived on 61st Street in Manhattan, whose only brush with the outdoors was when he crossed Central Park to pick up a dozen bagels, know about mountains? I don’t know if he had considered that conditions might be different at this time of year, or not. But if he had even hinted at how the warmer temperatures of summer, combined with the cooling temperatures at night, had replaced the soft powdery snow of earlier in the year and left this part of the mountain wrapped in a sheet of ice, things might have been different. I like to think that if he’d mentioned that kind of detail, I would never have sat down on my strip of cardboard.

But he didn’t. All I knew was that he’d gone down on a tray earlier in the year and that it had been an experience worth repeating. And I knew that I wanted that experience for myself. If I were a smarter person, I might have given this more thought. But I’m not. So I got into position and sat down on the cardboard.

I had it figured out that if I just sat down, a step closer to launching myself down the mountain but still in a position to back out if I chose, that I’d get a better feel for the situation. I distinctly remember that at that particular moment I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.

I knew immediately that I’d made a mistake. This wasn’t something intuitive. It wasn’t like I’d gained a sixth sense and could see into the future. It was the very real knowledge that during everyday activities – like watching tv or ironing a shirt – I did not suddenly accelerate from zero to sixty at a rate that would outstrip a Maserati. It was this sudden change in velocity that led me to the snap conclusion that I was screwed.

There was no warm-up to the shift in scenery, no gentle gathering of pace during which I might have looked around and enjoyed the view. There was no moderation at all. It was instant, life-throttling speed. There was nothing, and then there was everything. The Big Bang of sliding down mountains.

I’d like to say I had thoughts as I shot like a heat-seeking missile toward the village of Gimmelwald some five miles below. I’d like to say I gave thanks for not being seated on a polished, restaurant serving tray. Or that I wondered if I hadn’t possibly misheard Stephen, and what he’d actually said was that this would be “the last ride of your life.” But all that existed on that lonely mountain as I was pounded against the ice was the very real sense that this was not going to finish well.

My first instinct was to somehow get off. But I was 10,000 feet up, and the only way to get off was to get down. I was already heading down. I decided that the best thing I could do was to keep hold of the cardboard. That seemed important.

I was moving very quickly, getting pounded against the ice. Deep ruts had formed across the width of the mountain, and I would go down, slam into the other side, and come shooting up again out of the crevice.

At least, that was true until I arrived at a stretch of ice that rose like a tsunami in front of me, and which there was no way around. When I smacked into it, my cardboard went in one direction, and I sailed off in the other. Sometime later I landed, and after a combination of rolling and more sliding, finally came to a stop. I don’t know if this was because the ice ran out, or if it had been the cardboard the whole time that had kept up my momentum.

I found myself alone on the mountain, and in pain. The grey fog was above me now, the day bright, the sun warm on my face. My leg was on fire. When I looked, it appeared twisted at an odd angle.

I shouted up the mountain. “It was an experience!” But I didn’t mean this in a good way. I hadn’t intended it as an enticement to follow me down. They were simply the first words out of my mouth. If I’d had time to reconsider, I would have said something else. But it was too late. Stephen had heard me.

Let me say something about Stephen. He had landed in Europe from New York fourteen months before with a plan to stay two months. Returning to New York in the foreseeable future was not on his agenda. His goal was to take in every bit of Europe possible, from the biggest monument, to the tiniest blade of grass, and he wouldn’t be finished until he had collected a lifetime of experiences. There was nothing that meant more to Stephen than the experience. The experience was everything, the paint to life’s canvas. So when he heard this, he didn’t hesitate, and unknown to me, leaped onto his cardboard.

The first thing I saw emerge from the fog was a couple of apples. They were still gathering speed when they passed me. And then a sandwich came sliding down, and I realized the bag Stephen had been carrying must have burst open, and the contents were in a race to the bottom of the mountain. I looked at the fog, and wondering what might be next to emerge, I tried to visualize the exact contents of the bag. The next thing to appear was Stephen’s hat, and this surprised me because the hat hadn’t been in the bag. Stephen had been wearing the hat. And then Stephen’s cardboard appeared, without Stephen on it. And for a brief moment, I might have actually started to worry.

But of course, Stephen did finally emerge out of the fog. He was on his back, and spinning in circles as he slid over the ice. He was also obviously bleeding, and by the looks of it probably quite badly, because he was leaving a red trail in the snow.

And because he was spinning, in what was an almost lazy fashion, the effect was quite striking. A kind of naïve, but bold art that a four year old might turn in if you handed her a very large sponge, and told her to go paint a mountain.

The Best Actress nomination makes Tubblethwait, who is hoping to be born next week, the youngest nominee in the Oscars’ 85 year history.

The unborn actress lit up the screen from inside the womb in the role of Tom Hanks’ swim teacher, who plays the cheese maker in the movie.

When asked about the experience of working with an unborn fetus, director Mike Nichols talked about one of the biggest challenges being to get someone so young to take direction, a task made more difficult as at the time of shooting her ears weren’t fully formed.

The camera team were able to work around this by inserting a video hook up directly into the amniotic fluid and projecting footage of the set onto a micro monitor alongside Hepsibah as she drifted around in the womb.

Noted chimp behaviorist, Stephanie Bryant, was then brought in to help ramp up Hepsibah’s sign language so that she and Nichols would be able to communicate.

But then somebody pointed out that Hepsibah had no eyes either, which meant putting production on hold for another three weeks. “Once her eyes grew in and we were finally ready to go, the whole thing ran very smoothly. For a fetus she was really easy to work with, “ said Nichols.

With Oscar night less than two weeks away, parents to be are keeping their fingers crossed that Hepsibah will be born in time to accept the award in person, in the event that the biggest dream of her young life should come true.

#2 Use mouth-to-mouth resuscitation before you shoot your partner through the head, but not after. In surveys conducted over a ten year period between June of 2002 and April of 2012, one hundred percent of convicted killers reported that it was too late by then.

#3 Don’t get arrested on murder charges with a penalty of life imprisonment. This one puts a real damper on the relationship, especially if you’ve just shot your partner while she was on the toilet, as this lessens the chance of prison visits.

#4 Don’t keep a small arsenal of weapons under your bed if you’re liable to fly off the handle and shoot your partner. Very few instances have been found, none actually, where shooting your partner led to a longer relationship.

#5 Don’t have the cops keep showing up at your door on suspicion of domestic abuse. Chances are you’ll end up shooting someone in the head, most likely your partner.

Emerging from the carriage at the end of the journey looking quite flushed, Prince Charles said that it was jolly good fun and he could see why people worked for a living if they got to ride this every day.

After all the excitement, he proposed that the service be extended beyond just Farringdon and King’s Cross. “It’s quite naughty of you Central London chaps to be keeping this all to yourselves,” he said. “Perhaps in the future there will be a time when we’ll have a network of tunnels beneath London and we can be shot of all this horse pooh.”

Tomorrow the Prince and the Duchess plan to visit something called a store.

The move comes in the wake of the Aurora, Colorado theater tragedy, where 12 people were shot and killed. A spokesman for the NRA said that inexperienced gun users sitting in near total darkness and armed with an unfamiliar loaded weapon will create a heightened safety environment. “This action will serve to put forth our belief that only when its citizens are armed to the teeth is a nation truly safe.”

The NRA plans to extend their gun handouts to shopping malls. “These are first steps toward creating a safer America,” said the spokesman. “Further down the road, we’d like to see guns in cereal packets.”

“This is a different kind of marketing,” said Barry Tipps, speaking on behalf of Apple. “It represents a huge opportunity, but delivering to a rain forest is not the same as parking a truck outside Walmart. There are logistics to consider that we’re not familiar with. Risk of disease, language barriers, and that up until now the Indians have been using sticks to talk to each other.”

For a 2 year contract Apple says native Amazonians will be able to pick up an iPhone for 4 beads, a handful of leaves and a couple bananas.

“I had just gone outside and was struggling to get my lighter going. It’s a silly thing but I was somewhat distracted. It kept going out, like it was all wet or something,” said James Madison from his hospital bed, where his leg is in critical condition. “I didn’t notice the shark until it sank its teeth into my knee.”

Asked if he hadn’t also noticed the amount of water that surged in when he stepped out onto his private balcony, Mr. Madison said, “Yes, of course, but it had been unusually humid all day and the air was ripe with condensation.”

A spokesperson for the Hydropolis said that all the doors in the hotel are clearly marked that they are not to be opened under any circumstances. “It’s an unfortunate incident, but I don’t see what else we can do,” said the spokesperson. They added that Mr. Madison will be billed for the saltwater damage caused to the room.

Not content with just the tallest building in the world, Dubai is now signed up for the most submerged hotel and resort spa, which means that soon you’ll be able to curl up in bed at the bottom of the sea with the local marine life. In fact, you’ll be able to spend the whole night together.  Just leave your scuba gear at the door, and for pete’s sake don’t open any windows.

The concept, developed by Deep Ocean Technology for Water Discus Underwater Hotels, is being billed as the world’s first luxury underwater hotel. Does this mean there’s already a Motel 6 at the bottom of the East River? Stay tuned for further news on that one.

TO READ MORE, YOU HAVE TO HEAD OVER TO COOL GIZMO TOYS…

The prospects of the day are dashed, and the slightest movement is heavy with ache and fatigue. On these occasions it is most important that you know precisely the steps not to take. Here is a guide:

When your wife suggests that you partake of a soothing oatmeal bath to relax and relieve your itchiness, do not listen to her. Your wife may mean well, and an oatmeal bath may seem like a wonderful idea. But let me tell you that it is not.

Also, just because the children are off at school and you don’t have to worry about them barging in on you, don’t believe for a moment that you can relax with the bathroom door open, exposing your body to the natural breezes blowing through your home. Nobody wants to see this. Don’t do it.

Never fall asleep in your oatmeal bath either, as a friend of mine once did, because you will wake to find that the oatmeal has congealed. This is not at all a pleasant thing (apparently), as you will then be lying in breakfast cereal.

If you think this is a bad affair, prepare yourself. Your predicament will only fully take shape when you go to drain the bath, whereupon you will discover that the porridge won’t go down the plughole. Here you must be sure not to make another mistake and get out of the tub to scrape the porridge from your body into the toilet. You may think you are being clever. You are wrong.

The reason you are wrong is that it is about this time that Mrs. Peanuckle from next door decides to pop by for a visit. Your wife, without telling you, has gone off somewhere, leaving you alone in the house.

Finding the front door open, Mrs. Peanuckle lets herself in, and seeing no one about downstairs, continues upstairs. You may now begin to realize why I said earlier that it is never a good idea to leave the bathroom door open.

Mrs. Peanuckle will then scream. She does this because she’s just found you naked in the center of the bathroom flinging oatmeal at the toilet, which is not a thing for anyone to see.  Mrs. Peanuckle now looks rather like a victim in a teenage horror movie in which young people have gone camping at Camp Blood.

You on the other hand, are thinking that a spot of milk might loosen your suit of porridge and make it more manageable.

“Ah, Mrs. Peanuckle,” you say, “Would you be so kind as to fetch me some milk.”

“Milk?” she will gasp.

“Yes, and perhaps a spoon to go with it,” you answer, delighted at the simplicity of your solution.

This isn’t the first time I’ve hated a road. I also despise the Long Island Expressway in New York. Neither am I a fan of the M25 around London, which is essentially a repository for all of England’s traffic cones.

It strikes me that roads are more often immortalized in song than they are harangued. Bob Dylan made Highway 61 an American icon. And wasn’t it America who noticed that the nights were stronger than moonshine over Ventura Highway?

What I’ve noticed about route 22 is this: It’s ruined my weekends, which once I looked forward to with pleasure. I used to love the possibility that this might be the week when the four-day option finally arrived. We’ve talked about it for long enough. Surely it ought to be showing up soon.

It’s not, and now I’ve gone the other way and given up Saturday. In fact, if we could erase Saturday completely and just hold onto Sunday, I think I’d be ok.

Because it’s Saturday that’s the problem. Saturday morning, specifically.

At 8:20 I’m driving my wife to her 8:30 spin class.

After I’ve dropped her off I go back to the house and wake up Dylan. Because we let him stay up late Friday nights to watch Frasier, currently his favorite show, he’s usually fallen asleep on the couch. By 9:30 he has to be at his violin class with Ji Soong.

Route 22 is a killer. You think it’s just two miles of tarmac littered with traffic out your front door, then one day you’re in Sweden and there it is again, full of potholes and water main breaks and wriggling with cars and buses, just like at home. It’s like I95, except all I95 does is run up and down the entire east coast.

What this boils down to is that my drive to violin class, which should take about a minute, takes twenty minutes. This is a sizeable chunk of my day. I’ve calculated that if I’m spending a third of my life asleep, a third of it at work, and three hours of every day driving the kids around, it’s little wonder the laundry’s piling up like it is.

After I’ve dropped Dylan, my wife’s done spinning and I must pick her up. Another twenty minutes back down route 22. Then it’s back to the house to drop her and pick up Jake, who for some reason we’ve scheduled to be at the same place where Dylan is right now. And now I must hurry because we’re running late after I got stuck in the traffic on route 22. Except I can’t hurry because I’m on route 22 again. In what looks like the same traffic. Hurrying is not an option on route 22.

I drop Jake, pick up Dylan, go back down route 22, drop Dylan at home, head back for Jake down route 22, pick him up, and back along route 22. And then I’m home, and all that’s left is to walk the dog.

Along route 22.