Greetings, hoi polloi. I look down upon you from an even greater height than usual, stationed as I am at Verbier for a well-earned Easter skiing break, courtesy of a vast Swiss food company that must remain nameless but which, let us say, is Nestléd hereabouts. Some of its local glad-handers took me for a three-hour tour of an Easter egg factory, and let me assure you that was exactly as stimulating as it sounds.

The only upside to the experience is that I am now in a position to reassure Mr Firmly-Stallingwit, on the off-chance that he has taken a break from Saving Us All From Ourselves to read this, that his favourite oval treats do not emanate from chocolate battery hens. Funny who you can bump into out here. You'd have thought King Justin would be back at the Holborn counting house, trying to massage JS's dead-cat bounce into a shape fit for presenting to the hard-done-by shareholders, and possibly Mr Potato.

But there he was on the green slopes (where else in these environment-conscious times?) trying to impress some designer totty on his snowboard, replete with stabilisers. You've got to say he made a better fist of it on Wednesday but you've also got to say that when even certain major JS shareholders with names not dissimilar to that over the door are bucketing sackloads of stock, someone has to carry the can for Making Sainsbury's Grate Again.

At least when he was on the piste he didn't go the same way as the head of a certain significant competitor who, a Whitehall source tells me, is still unable to frequent his favourite Hertfordshire line-dancing club due to injuries sustained as he cut something short of a dash on the Austrian slopes this year. Discretion prevents me from revealing his identity, but suffice to say the newly endowed Graf von Leahy wing of the Innsbruck General Hospital now pays Clubcard points on its surgical supports.