Mr S and the Secrets of Andorra's Box

You could say that my life was no different from that of any other 26-year-old south Dublin trustifarian. Old man in jail. Old dear licking semolina off a spatula on national television. Son determined to become a hero to the dispossessed of north Dublin's slumlands. And an ex-wife whose fondness for charity was about to rebound on me in a big time way.

I needed a break from my humdrum existence. I needed to, like, find myself and I did – high in the Pyrenees, in the land where skobies go to ski, with nothing but a ragtag rugby team, a six-figure, tax-free salary and a shrink with the major hots for me. Of course, I was too busy trying to get her bra off to hear the avalanche warning.