How To Be A Good Sport – Part Two

Having determined that Mr V is officially a skidrop-out, my daughter and I set off husbandless and fatherless to PassoTonale.  My suitcase was lined with apile thermal underwear, brand new salopettes, three new ski jackets (becausethey were a bargain) and my old faithful all-in-one.  I don't know what made me throw in the oldfaithful all-in-one but I am very glad that I did.Lesson One. When buying new ski gear, it's no good admiring your silhouette in tightski pants and a fitted jacket.  Becausewhen you put your thermal clobber on underneath, you cannot make zippersmeet.  Not even a little bit.Lesson Two. If you buy ski gear in the sale because it's a bargain but then end uphanging it in the wardrobe throughout the entire week, it's a waste of money.Lesson Three. By dint of Lesson One and Two it's pointless clutching your credit cardstatement in one hand, your forehead in the other, and berating God for inventingsales in Decathlon and extreme weather conditions so vicious you can't see themountain in front of you – never mind ski down it.

And so it was Eleanor and I ventured out of ourhotel in minus fifteen to meet our ski instructor.  One hour later we were reduced to standing ona nursery slope with a wind blowing us sideways as zillions of ice particles gaveus the sort of dermabrasion treatment you pay a fortune for at the beautician's.  Our hands and feet went numb as the windchill factor took the temperature down to minus twenty-four.  Eleanor's lip jutted out and she uttered thewords, 'I think I'm going to cry.'  Thisis the sort of talk my feisty fourteen year old hasn't uttered since the age ofsix.  So cutting our lesson short, wesaid good-bye to the instructor before going off to thaw in a restaurant. 'Tomorrow,' Thomas called after us, 'drink bottleof red wines before leaving hotels.  Isgooda for cold.'  The thought of knockingback a bottle of red at any time of the day let alone 8.30 in the morning wasn'tsomething either of us was up for.  Norclearly that of a French schoolboy who ended up having two fingers amputateddue to frostbite.  No exaggeration.

As our extremities came back to life they wentthrough various colour transformations. Eventually we were able to slurp on a cappuccino – although holding the cupto our lips was precarious.  This wasbecause our throbbing fingers now resembled purple aubergines.  And talking of aubergines, I'm now remindedof our hotel's menu.As a vegetarian, the hotel restaurant assured Iwould be delighted with their meal options. Aubergine lasagne.  Spaghetti andaubergine.  Aubergine pie.  Baked aubergine.  One day they battered an aubergine and servedit with sweet and sour sauce.  Just whenI thought it was impossible to do anything else with an aubergine....da-da.... auberginetart.  With custard.  Don't believe me?  I have photographic evidence on my FB page!

After a first day of almost non-existent skiing,Eleanor and I retired to our hotel room. It was nice.  All knotty pine andelegant curtains.  On the wall over thetwin beds was a huge picture depicting three naked cherubs gambolling acrossthe canvass.  A previous occupant of theroom – possibly bored due to the extreme weather conditions – had taken a biroto one of the cherubs doing a full frontal and artistically added a hugeappendage.The following morning the weather was still cruellycold, but visibility good.  Thomasgreeted us and announced that today – thanks to the 100 mph wind dropping – we wouldbe able to use the chairlift to the glacier. Hurrah.  We were especially delightedthat our chairlift had a pull-down Perspex hood to keep us cosy on the ride up tothe glacier.  But not so delighted when,upon reaching the apex, the hood failed to release.  Yes, all the way back to the bottom.  Yes we did bring all the machinery to a halt.

And thus our skiing week got underway, in erratic fitsand starts.  When we were too cold tofeel the tips of our tongues in our mouths, we would head back to the hotelwhich was fortunately posh enough to have a Jacuzzi, pool and gym.  Never before have I booked a skiing holidayand found myself spending more time running on a machine that goes nowhere ordoing the breast stroke.Eleanor, a text addict (are their clinics for suchaddictions?), spent every awakening moment with her fingers pressing buttons onher mobile using the Blackberry Messenger service.  Every thirty seconds the phone would emit a brrrrrmmmm announcing a Status Update fromone of her zillion contacts.  This everso slightly drove me nuts.  If Eleanorcould have skied whilst texting, then she would have done so.  StatusUpdate – skiing a red run.  Thirtyseconds later  Status Update – Hot boy ahead.And talking of hot boys, the daughter's eyes were onstalks.  Oh yes, never before in hershort little life had she spotted so many gorgeous lads (Harry Styles look awaynow).  No sooner had I finished munchingmy aubergine supper, my daughter was gone. Didn't see her for dust. Fortunately I am a voracious reader, so whilst I did my bookwormimpression, my daughter was doing a different type of impression.  That of a doe-eyed helpless female standingin the lobby clutching an iPod that wasn't working.  Rescue was almost instant.  Instead of a knight on a white charger, alongcame the most handsome boy in the hotel with an iPod charger.  They went dancing.  They went to the arcade.  They went to the karaoke.  On the sixth night he hugged her.  On the last night he walked Eleanor back toour hotel room.  Eleanor was convinced hewould kiss her.  And maybe he would havedone had I not unwittingly opened the door as the pair of them were standingthere.  I don't know who was moreembarrassed.  Them or me.  Possibly me. A vision in a Donald Duck nightdress and face cream.Alas the skiing holiday is over.  Instead of coming home on a high, I feeldeflated.  Cheated out of my annualthrill.  But never mind.  There's always next year...