Piste Off

It’s a very expensive way to buy some scent cheap, but the thought of that knock-down, duty-free Miss Dior drew me on through those giddy circles of hell, the online booking forms.
The only true way to afford skiing is to hover like vultures circling the price drops, deaf to the inward tutting at just the scummy places being left, blind to the blanching at the cost of extras breeding like flies.
“Helmets,” muttered Lorraine not quite under her breath, “£42…”
“£42,” I said, joining in. I join in on the silences a lot, I think of it as being friendly, dreaming of a “friendly” button allied to “give big discount” button on their keyboards. “That’s not bad,” I said. “That’s, what,” I calculated, “Just over a tenner each.”
“Nah,” she said. “That’s each.”
“We’ll buy them out there,” I said slightly snappily, consigning the friendly button to the bin.

So, having done the surprising thing of establishing at the beginning of the process that we can afford it, I found myself on various ski sites, chasing deals round the internet and becoming frightfully weary in the process. I filled in Enquiry forms, and made quick checks on various unhelpful helplines (“please note our agents cannot help with ….”)
It was exhausting. So much so that staggered from my chair almost thinking that I had been skiing. Dizzy with alpine views and dazzled from absorbing the inside of each and every chalet in France. Ooh, nice sofa. Hmmm, bleak bedroom. I was in severe need of a vin chaud. Or froid.

I grew to loathe the mouse. Every site required the inanity of details, of clicking, of Inputting my Requirements. 2 adults, 2 children: age? Drag click 12; age? Drag click 14. I’d press Submit eagerly only to have the site collapse on me with a reproachful “select departure airport.” Irritably, I’d snap on South West, cursing (there’s a lot of cursing, the dog covers her ears) that I can’t chose London and South West but I can’t, so I sit back and wait.
“Thank you for your patience,” whirrs the website, giving me a slowly revolving egg timer to assist in the notion that the waiting has a purpose. I picture the website sitting back on its rocker, having a cup of tea and a laugh. The egg timer shooting tetchy glances, “what? You want me to go round again??”

Up come some options. Hoorah. All flying from Manchester at 6 in the morning. I no longer wonder why they wanted to know where I’d prefer to fly from: unless there’s a by-product perk in pissing off the hapless holiday maker by trilling “South West! Peek-a-boo! Can’t seeee yoooo! Heh heh heh!!”
3 chalets with drop dead gorgeous prices don’t allow children (drag click 12 …) and there are endless gummy looking apartments, all requiring us to crowd in together to a 18m square space. Whatever that means. But I’m guessing no love is strong enough to share it with F12’s chaos. What that child can do with an open suitcase would bring dictators to their knees. Where’s Franco when you need him. Same with the unappealing phrase, “quad room.” No, he can share with the luckless T14. Besides, where’s the ‘holiday’ bit in stirring some grim pasta in a bleak flat while damp salopettes steam in depressing contiguity? Carrying shopping in ski boots is not an option.
Option is, however, a favoured word in any given web site but what’s annoying (lots is annoying) is that you have to opt for one thing when you want two: catered chalet, or hotel and when you’d really rather opt not to have one thing, self-bloody-catering for starters. You see. It gets confusing.
Now and again interesting looking possibilities arose. By now the true hydra headed nature of choice has kicked in. There’s no such thing as a “that’ll do,” not when you have the horrors of being able to cross check.

So off I scurried to Trip Advisor to check on the remnants of availability, witness the hotels put through their paces. “A great shame,” puffed one reviewer, “that there were no tea and coffee making facilities in the room; it is on this basis that I can only give 3/5.” What?! Go without. Go to the bar. Another couple had “had” to downgrade their accommodation (how easily one adopts the parlance) due to the “unfortunate incident” involving someone else’s child having been sick on the coach.
Trip Advisor is the home of the green inked psychopath and he’s going to wield his power. A deal is made of momentary power, while the bi-focals are busied about on the bridge of the snout and “a 3? I think? Overall? Muriel? given the scarcity of matutinal bakery items?” The question is of course rhetorical for Muriel is otherwise occupied sorting out the squalid end of the suitcase and muttering mantras of “honour thy husband …. Thou must not stab...”

Half a memory of a really good looking place about 4 websites ago goaded so. Which called for urgent back clicking, the computer freezing, the sites flashing past my eyes. "Session timed out" announced the site in question. "Please re-submit your details." My need for a glass of vin chaud increased to a pitcher.

Then I thought, are we quite mad? The snow’s not brilliant, so round and round the websites once more I went, perving over webcams, gleaning hope or desperation from static shots.
I phoned random people in random resorts, plucked unluckily from pages on Google
“Eeese snn-ow dewww?” they parrotted back at me perplexedly. “Lurrr slurps eese gud.” “Yess Yess,” said another, “hi-yup, hi-yup, eese gud.”

I dithered.
Exit or Submit.
Submit or Exit.
I clicked.

memememememememe

the last to be asked, sob, but here it is:

What are my current obsessions?
finishing off making curtains, as have done the fun bit of creating sort of circles and have the dull bit left of sewing the circles on to material and then making the curtains themselves, all the tiresome stuff of measuring and dealing with 24’ of material. Hopefully it will be better than the frankly ghastly-sounding thing I’ve made it out to be. It resides partly still in fantasy land which is just how I like it. Reality makes me anxious.

Which item of clothing am I wearing most?
hate shopping, but a long black top bought in the Animal sale last year. God, it’s had some wear. Whenever I get a new best thing to wear, I can never work out what I used to use.

What’s for dinner?
ah, well, here I come into my own. Pasta (home made, sigh), with some sort of wholesome sauce and little brown rolls and then a couple of salads, tomato and seeds and rocket. Angels will weep.

Last thing I bought?
plants. Don’t tell Edward

What am I listening to?
the self-important huffing and puffing of the computer. Be quiet. We’ve all heard you.

What would I say to the person who inspired me to do this post?
don’t let the bugger get you down

Favourite holiday destination?
skiing. Waves imaginary pole crossly at the sky: why is it so expensive!!!

Anywhere I would like to visit before I die?
India. Not merely for the grub, though my little paw will drift to yummy platters as and when.

Reading right now?
God’s Own Country by Ross Raisin. Have just finished it and it’s great. A first novel which convinces. Toxic, short, witty, lots of white spaces and full of lovely words. Will probably follow it up with some embarrassingly trashy thriller. Me, that is, not him.

Guilty pleasure?
buying books and plants. Smuggling both in. Far-away expression on face, Oh, that’s been there for ages. That sort of thing.
And reading trashy thrillers.
And, best of all, the fantasy with the dog ... the lorry ... the slipped lead. (Had promised self not to mention the dog, and she is the only "copy" I have so should show her some respect, but who can resist??)

Best thing I ate or drank lately?
I blush to say that it was the most delicious little canapé things made by, er, me for a chum’s party. An asparagus, pea and parmesan thing on little rounds of bread and an aubergine, chilli, garlic and prawn one ditto. With a glass of warm champagne in the other mitt. Yumtastic.

Care to share some wisdom?
how long have you got?
If being sensible, and perhaps a little bit American (sorry, Frances!), I suppose I’ll go for don’t tell lies and that includes being true to yourself, too.

Is there a television programme that I enjoy at the moment?
does ‘The Wire’ count? It’s on DVD as the BBC has only just started showing it.

Thing most looking forward to?
Holidays, always holidays, although what from, please don't question. But to be off with the ones I love, free from the tyranny of routine, can't wait!


Everyone else has done this one (small, bitter moue of the mouth), but for any other unloved souls out there who are kind enough to call, consider yourself tagged.

Going Downhill Fast. Again. But in France

I’ve put the wrong thing in the chilli and it smells weird so am up here in denial.
We can blame a jar of something that needed using up (by which I mean throwing away about a month ago). And when I say we, I mean me. For I fear I’ve spoiled it, and since I am being good, and not drinking in the week, I can’t even slather my palate with vino and not give a damn-o.

Suspect housewifery made so much worse by our having returned from France on Saturday after a fine week’s skiing.

My prowess recedes each year and I am possibly as good now, after a total of 8 weeks on skis, as my eleven year old was after just his second day, back when he was 5.
Both the children are horribly good, tipping themselves down black runs like James Bond villains while I, the Nan of the piece, wobble and fret and nurse my joints, shaking my poles at snowboarders. It comes of starting too old and indeed I can only really bank on being better than learners on their very first day.
But even the cat needs someone to kick and a most cruel pleasure I take, I freely confess, in swooshing past those timorous souls clinging to the slopes and so very obviously hopeless, scared to their inner core with “I Am New To This (and I wish I were at home…).” There is always a black day – or several when you are actually learning to ski – where your soul comes up against your resolve and both are found wanting, a depressing glimpse of unpleasing character. A form of schadenfreude exists, mefears, where it is not enough, to be a little bit OK at something but there must be serried, too, the ranks of the truly inept. And they must watch you fly past, and something approaching awe must cross their desperate faces. God, it’s good. Not too, too close. I stopped short of quite slicing over the back of their skis lest my guardian angel took umbrage at such boastful folly and made me tumble, a yahoo thing in padded orange, arse over tit and firmly put in her place. Couldn’t have that.

So by day it was early rising, and practising being old.
A kindly physiotherapist at our chalet lent me a serious knee brace: part Hannibal Lecter rubber and part scary metal. It took some hauling on and left parched summer river bed creases deep in my chubby leg come night time when finally it was peeled off. My left knee gained a renewed and cocky juvenilia while my right knee sulked and took refuge in envy. Other limbs and joining bits, elbows and things, creaked and all the myriad moves of the day before replayed in reverse, the stretches and leaps and thigh-trembling horrors cruelly recalled in the reduction of movement remaining now. Walls were clutched to steady the progress down to breakfast. Chairs were hard to sit on without a sudden collapse through the last free-falling inches.

Skiing occupied each morning. After the laying on of the necessary armour: the imprisoning of each foot in brutal ski boots, the zipping and tucking in and velcroing of layers, the snap of the goggles, the bustling with hats and straps and tugging on with teeth of gloves, the cumbersome underwater movements, the doing the same for your children, one is almost too exhausted to stamp into skis and take off.
Mindful of the pleasure to come, and the emptying of the bank account to have got there at all, one does shift arse and get going, but it’s tough pursuing unnecessary enjoyment and I expect pity.

Lunch was basically raw meat which T11 and I tore at greedily, choking down the iron of blood, all but snarling as we grappled with our salad and chips while E winced painfully, delicately, at our primeval excesses and sipped virtuously on some grim vegetable soup, which he felt duty-bound to declare delicious. Ie: wholesome, ie: disgusting. F9 ate compulsive pizzas, skinny and stretched and clearly moreish. The coke of both wobbled on too-small tables.

More skiing in the afternoon, made marginally more reckless fuelled by a steadying petit pitcher du vin blanc. Reward for survival.
Moments perched perilous high on chair lifts swaying from their cables when stopped without warning. Metallic shrieks of untrustworthy machinery and the buffeting of alarming winds to contend with before the relief of the take up of speed again as inexplicable as was the stop. We could picture poor souls (bungling variety) in a heap of poles at one end or other of the chair lift: we’ve all been there, glamorous it ain’t.

The lifts begin closing at 4.15 and there is a final rush to time it all right: to maximise their use without stranding oneself the wrong side of a mountain and a hefty bill charged by a taxi driver. And then home to shortbread and a cup of brown liquid, called in misplaced optimism, “coffee.”
Somehow the next three hours are what it takes to change, to transform oneself from ageing, shagged-out teletubby lumbering in unseemly quilty infantile clothing into something which can be tickmarked adult human, where legs are shown, and faces revealed and hair sort of brushed. To shower in a tiny enclosure, to knock back a comforting glass and to slide into a chair and chomp on surprisingly delicious food, chalet food generally being an unreliable thing.

Too much wine later was bed time and an unfolding of the thing called our bodies onto small hard beds to dream and feel the swoosh continue through the soles of our feet before morning came too soon.

Morning actually came in the middle of the night on our final day, at 3am when we woke in haste to catch our coach. But snow in the night had caused a domino effect of trapped coaches up and down the mountain road and we were abandoned to the limbo of a hotel seating area, anxiety about catching our plane gnawing slightly at the tiny bits of us which were awake. Apart from the children who just quarrelled over their Nintendos and were horribly hearty.
Rescue came, late, in the form of a delightful girl, very ra and very rude and very un-pc, who cannoned us down another road in her Kanga van-cum-car and thence to another bus which confidently started driving us to the wrong airport. Mercifully I said something. Usually, I wouldn’t have bothered, having an utter trust in the competence of others, particularly with regard to things useful like driving buses. I hazarded a query. Which the bus driver ignored but when I repeated it again, she reacted insofar as to flounce and roll her eyes and stab at her phone buttons and nod a lot, and then turn round.

Can I say it’s great to be home?
Let’s consider the evidence.
There: sun, snow, a feeling of achievement, staff.
Here: boiler going haywire, endless laundry, house a tip, bills rolling in, week-time wine a thing of the past, Lolly still bald as a pipe-cleaner, the chilli in chaos.
Whaddya think?