It's that time of year when the countryside is awash with
blossom, small furry animals poke their heads out of holes, and the
residents of Midsomer County load up their people-carriers and head
south for the annual Biggest Twit in the Snow Championships. There
has been a record number of entrants this year, twelve adults and
children beyond count, but snow conditions are unusually
challenging; basic problem being that there isn't any. As Mr
B remarked yesterday, 'I've never had to scrape cow-shit off my
ski-boots before.'
Anyway, onto the contest. Small child's best mate and his
siblings got off to a impressive start on the strength of what they
were prepared to wear on their heads, but I leapt into poll
position in the first hour by missing my footing on the ice and
hurtling 500 metres down the crowded village slope. Extra points
were awarded because I hadn't even got my skis on at this point,
and special Bonus Points, because, given my rather distinctive
jacket, I'm now doomed to spend the rest of the week hearing small
children sing, 'She'll be coming down the mountain on her bum.'
Later that day, one of our mates made a valiant attempt to take
the lead by failing to stop at the chairlift and sliding forward
into the path of the oncoming chair. Cue imminent disaster,
impalement on a pair of French skis and a solid victory, but she
chickened out at the last minute, threw herself to one side, leapt
kangaroo-like into the air, landed on the chair and pulled down the
safety bar before the lift attendants could curse 'Stupeed Engleesh
women' and press the stop button.
Reigning champion, Mr B, gave a solid reminder of his talents
when he persuaded the group he was leading to follow him down an
off-limits competition piste, (a strategy that worked well for two
of the group last year) in the process trying to jump a stretch of
net-fencing that had been laid across the snow. At which point it
all became a bit predictable. Ski got caught in net, Mr B got
wrapped in net like a flaying salmon, 50 metres of fluorescent
orange net and Mr B hurtled towards a crevice. The prize looked
safe, but he was thwarted at the last minute by another mate
spearing the net with his ski pole and bringing the plummet to an
end.
In the meantime, a number of minor prizes are being hotly
contested, with the Responsible Parent of the Week Award currently
being shared by four adults who late yesterday afternoon tried to
get three children onto a chairlift and left one of them
behind.
Most Annoying Person in the Apartment is, of course, Mr B, who
will insist on getting up before sun-rise, walking round the flat
in his ski-boots, emptying the dishwasher and rearranging the
saucepan drawer, while Meatloaf plays at maximum volume. God knows
I've spent fifteen years trying to explain to him that not everyone
wants to get up before six on their holiday but he just doesn't get
it.
The Special Merit For Getting Off With A Ski Instructor is
probably a done deal, given that adult lessons are finished for the
week and children don't take part in this one. To be honest, it was
all over on the first morning when handsome Christophe got rather
more than he bargained for when he skied backwards down the
mountain, yelling "Faster, faster! Closer closer!" at the lady
following him. She took him at his word, two bodies merged as one
and an eight-limbed creature hurtled down the slope, wiping out
everything in its path.
Today, we are attempting to get twelve adults, all staying in
different parts of the resort and all with differing child care
responsibilities, over to The Glacier and back in time to collect
numerous small children from numerous ski schools. Given that it's
an hour there and back, lessons only last two and half hours,
nobody ever arrives on time, we have to factor in several stops to
check emails and take phone calls and someone always needs a wee, I
have a feeling the prize could be settled today.
Some time later…
We are back from The Glacier. Hideous experience. Never going
again. On a brighter note, my lovely US publishers have organised a
nice lunch for me when I visit New York the week after next, and
the long list for the 2011 Dagger in the Library has just been
announced. (With my name on it!)