So back to the ski-holiday; missing cosy TV days in front of the Winter Olympics to make a real-life, amateur stand. Only, the weather takes a turn. Bloody storm Eunice. We decide to try track skiing instead.
So picture me, in a Narnia of pine-trees; I am just crouching on my skis to slide underneath two low branches that form a tunnel across the path. I am the last in the line and the others must have crouched lower than me; one of the pines discharges its snow on my head. Freed of its load, the branch springs skyward, leaving me blinking in sodden surprise.
‘Anyone else feel like an unlucky minor character out of Frozen?’ I ask the departing backs of my family.
I am obviously too tight and Southern to have my own skis, track or otherwise, so I have once again borrowed my in-laws thirty-year-old spares. No amount of wax will give them any amount of forward glide and a little chunk of muscle, somewhere deep in each inner thigh, is now killing.
I don’t think I’m alone. ‘It’s as fast as walking but harder,’ moans Tiddler. ‘I feel like I’m doing lots of Spotty Dogs. Spotty dogs don’t move you forwards.’
It’s satisfying, however, when we get to a shallow downhill – in my opinion, just the right amount of exciting. The descent is very, very controlled.
The next day, there is plenty of snow. The kids build a snow-man. I am in a mood to be virtuous and YouTube an hour’s yoga work-out to focus on my strength and flexibility. I am holding a plank when the door is flung open, and four children step over me in rapid succession. The little one spots my potential as a radiator and turns back.
‘Yoooookh!’ I don’t think he wearing any gloves to build that snowman.
Inevitably, conditions today are perfect; it’s snowed overnight and gorgeous white mountains gleam under a flawless blue sky. But we are committed; we have to be out of the flat by ten – and the local idyllic birdsong is soon drowned out by our family shouting.
-Mu-u-u-u-mmy! I’ve lost my necklace!
-Anyone got the charger for this phone?
-Any more to go in the dishwasher?
-Can anyone explain to me why I’ve got twelve shoes here and eight gloves and not one of them seems to have a friend?
– But Mummy! It’s my favourite necklace! It was a present from Tiddlycousin!
– Tiddler! I’ve found those thermals you were denying having all week – they were in your drawer!
– Mummy! What shall I tell Tiddlycousin about the necklace?
– Mummy! Have you packed all my clothes?
– You need clothes? Now? After we’ve packed? What are you wearing?
– Glass and cardboard in that one – duvet covers go in those bags!
– Shit! We’ve forgotten to empty the fridge!
– What did this used to be? Should I smell it?
– Thank God! There’s a singe glass of wine left in this bottle – and shucks: you’ve got to drive!
Anyone who has ever travelled in a car with two kids, knows that the drama didn’t end there. And I’m not just talking about the Archers, punctuated by questions about how long there is left. We have the inevitable two-minutely updates about the state of a small person’s bladder as we approach a service station – a different type of excitement to skiing. And further excitement when the service station toilets turn out to have giant fish-scenes on the walls. There’s the inevitable debate as we look at the Sat-nav, watching two rival traffic-jams going down opposite sides of the country. Do we take the M6 or the A1(M)? The answer always becomes evident just as we pass the junction and seems to be the opposite of whichever we take. Meanwhile, there are questions to answer –
-Mummy, why are there no ski-slopes in Sheffield?
Mummy, can we try ice-dancing next?
And
-Mummy, when can we go skiing again?
My Body, My Own 