As the trophy wife of that well-known breed the “I-Am-on-Holiday-and-am-Therefore-a-Demi-God”, Aurelia is not so much in the mountains to ski as to take selfies in her £3,000 ski-chic knitwear and ‘go to meditation classes’.

With ten-foot legs, flaxen hair and a selection of eating disorders, she’ll exhibit a staggering sense of entitlement and probably won’t have learned your name by the end of the holiday.

She’ll arrive in a Chelsea tractor, tottering in stilettos, with a canine canapé in her bag and complain it’s too cold and the bed is too lumpy.

Breakfast will be a leisurely 10.30am affair, which sees her float around the chalet in her dressing gown demanding lattes and egg white omelettes of you when you should be skiing, whining about the slow wifi, and the phantom ‘dead rat smell’ in the kitchen.

Her private ski instructor will arrive at midday when she’s finally encased herself in a monochrome Lacroix onesie that cost more than your entire education.

She’ll then wobble off to catch the chairlift to a Michelin star piste-side restaurant where she’ll spend the afternoon vomiting foie gras into the toilet.