I never went skiing as a child.
I never thought I would take my own children skiing.
I mean, obviously I am middle class, but I’m not THAT middle-class. Skiing involves going abroad – at least as far as Scotland – and fancy gear and insider knowledge.
My Mum liked skiing apparently, in the days of attending a convent grammar school as a child. For years when I pictured skiing, I pictured nuns; penguin-clad nuns hurtling down acute-angled slopes that remain drawn in my imagination by pencil-crayon; their habits sweeping the snow behind them and insane grins on their faces.
That mental picture represents the full extent of my childhood skiing experience.
But then, of course, I married my husband.
Not only is my husband undeniably more middle-class than myself, but he is Scottish. He wears skirts with no underpants, drinks Iron Bru and eats haggis.
And while really posh kids fly abroad for ski-lessons (hubby has done his fair share of this too), honing your skills on the Lecht (in the Cairngorms) is a rite of passage for the Scottish outdoorsy. The gear isn’t cheap but can be hired – and while we have to buy jackets for Tiddler occasionally, Toddler is the last in a line of four cousins and has a fine inheritance of gear.
Which is why, against my better judgement, I am standing by the side of a ski-slope, freezing my tits off beneath two jackets of my own while pointing my smartphone this way and that to capture my kids learning snowplough turns. I obviously look like a rookie, because when Toddler is moaning that his fingers are cold, a helpful guy comes out of nowhere to tell him to wear marigolds under his ski-gloves. The same guy apparates again around lunch-time to recommend that we move ninety degrees round the side of the cafe. He is right; there is a sun-trap there, out of the wind. After that, every time he looks our way I wonder what else he is wanting to tell me. Not that I mind; I am used to looking like an idiot and anyway, the sun is shining. Tiddler and Toddler and Tiddly-cousin and Toddly-cousin are having a wonderful time.
I’m told that sibling pairs frequently define their characteristics by comparing themselves to the other one – to the extent that birth order is one of the first things that psychologists ask for when taking a history. My kids are typical – Tiddler is sensible, steady, high-performing and eager to please. Enjoying the break from meticulously revising from her sats tests, she now moves down the ski-slope at glacial speed, her feet in perfect ‘pizzas’ (listen to me, getting with the lingo), beautifully controlling her descent. Toddler, on the other hand, is a law unto himself. Wheeeeeeeeeeeee! Down he goes. How does he manage to narrowly avoid so many collisions? As I watch from between my fingers, I expect to see him plummeting backwards on his arse like Bridget Jones. I am braced to run out in a mercy-dash to save his life.
I needn’t have bothered. Toddler neatly snowploughs (‘pizzas’) his feet and curves to a stop at the bottom. Grannie and Grandad Scotland, who are obviously old hands at this, dive out of their van with Caramel Wafers and plastic mugs of hot-chocolate. While the kids apply chocolate moustaches, people drift away after their lessons. By the time the next lot of rookies are fumbling around for their gear, our kids are clicking their skis on again to make the most of the empty change-over slope. There is something called a magic carpet (a conveyor belt up the hill) and in no time at all there they are: no poles, arms stuck out sideways, drifting down the slope again in their jackets, like colourful little mini-starfish.
My Body, My Own 