How to not learn to ski*

Some eight years ago, I found myself closer to snow than my little African heart had ever quite believed I could get. I was in London. Obviously, there wasn't much snow there — enough to thrill me, admittedly, but not enough to kick about and play with. However, just a short plane hop away was Switzerland, home to cheese, chocolate, crazy soldiers, ski resorts and (temporarily) my own dear Beloved. The plan was, I would join him for a week or so, and while our starving student budgets didn't extend to visiting the mountains, he promised to teach me to "stand on skis" on the gently sloping fields behind his father's house.

Imagine my excitement. Imagine the anticipation.

Imagine me arriving slap bang in the middle of Switzerland's warmest winter in a century, with the fields insufficiently frozen to allow me to bounce on them without damaging the crops underneath. (Or something.)

So. After eight years of talking about "next time", we finally get around to booking a trip to an actual ski resort in actual ski season. (Weeelll... the "in season" part might be stretching the truth a little. But it would be possible to ski.) Just a long weekend, so I'm still not expecting to learn much more than "to stand on skis", but still: me! on skis! At last! As the time approaches, we realise that this agonisingly long winter we've been complaining about will actually have one great advantage: the snow will be better than we might have expected. Beloved spends hours telling me how, exactly, one must stand on skis, and why I mustn't be scared of breaking myself, and how carefully and patiently he will teach me, and how great Rivella tastes after a morning's snowy exercise.

Imagine my excitement. Imagine the anticipation.

Imagine me coming down with a raging fever one day before the trip.

Imagine me hopefully tagging along anyway, because I feel much better this morning really, and surely by Monday at least I'll be ready to do a little on-ski-standing. Imagine that bastard fever giving me the runaround all.bloody.weekend so that by the time I'm on the plane headed back to grey, miserable London, I still haven't gotten any closer to the glorious icing-topped mountain goodness than the flat's sunporch.**

Still, silver lining. I did lose 5 kilos.

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* An infinitive split with care.
** Which I must admit has a lovely view and I spent a couple of very happy hours there on Saturday morning, rolled up in about three duvets.