The One Where Dave Learns to Fly

I have awoken this morning to frost. Not the journalist but to that lovely white layer of frozen dew that looks so picturesque from the bedroom window but is actually an absolute pain when it comes to defrosting the car for the school run. It signals the start of winter for me and despite the weather warnings I never quite believe it is going to happen until it does and then I realise that I have never replaced the empty bottle of de-icer that I finished back in February and somehow the scraper that has lived in the car boot all summer has now miraculously disappeared, probably stolen by the scraper fairy who has been egged on by his buddies the sock elf and glove goblin.

So gloveless, this morning, I pulled a debit card from my pocket and with freezing finger tips scrapped each window just enough for the police to be satisfied that I had a clear view. Sun as usual was very helpful and drew, with his finger nail, pictures of his family all over the car in a sort of miniature Rolf Harris way.

“Have you guessed what it is yet, Mummy?”

“I think so Sun. But what is that hair doing between Mummy’s legs?”

“It’s NOT hair; it’s your shoe laces!”

Oh well that’s alright then! Although I’m still not 100% happy having to drive to school with a picture of me looking like I have unruly pubic hair. But then I love my son and don’t want to quash his artistic sensitivities, do I?

I have found, since being a parent, that it is helpful to check things out with your child before jumping to a conclusion. I have heard of parents going to great lengths to explain what sex meant to a small child and then once the child was well and truly confused asked “why did you ask, Jamie?” “Cos my friend has gone home for lunch and said he would be back in two secs!” Or the time a parent, with notepad and pencil in hand explained in some detail to her little girl what a penis was, only to find out later that the penis was actually a pianist and that the school concert was going to be cancelled because the poor chap was unwell!!

Check it out Parents. Check it out!!

Anyway, getting back on track, this morning’s frost has bought memories of skiing holidays in France to the front of my mind and today I thought I would share with you one such story.

Many of you will know my wife Dave and will know how very confident she is and how she likes to grab life with both hands. Intrepid or stupid I’m not sure what it is but it makes for fun as we travel this path together.

Our first skiing trip was no different. Whilst I was having palpitations in a skiing lesson, snowploughing at a snail’s pace down a slight incline at the entrance to a car park, Dave was itching to throw herself in gay abandon down the side of the nearest mountain.

I was very apprehensive about this at first but after a few glasses of French plonk at lunchtime and having 2 experienced skiers with us who promised to hold my hand, we took the cable car up to the top of a mountain and slowly worked our way back down.
In most part it was a gentle run with lovely tree lined avenues for us to ski along. It had been a warm day with lovely blue skies and the snow was soft and slow to ski on which suited both of us just fine.
Our experienced skiers were great; they knew the run well and anticipated the route with us novice skiers in mind. It was simple- all we had to do was follow their instruction.
The final piece of the run was a long narrow gentle decline. We parallel skied gently down it but for those more experienced the fun was in aiming their skis straight down and seeing how much speed they could pick up before reaching the hillock close to the bottom which would slow their descent onto an area where 3 runs merged.
Although slowly done, it was thrilling and up we went again to complete the circuit for a second time before heading back to the hotel for a bit of the old après ski.

The following morning, elated with her confident performance on the slopes the previous afternoon, Dave arranged with our experienced skiers, to go back to the same run after breakfast and give it one more go before trying something a little more challenging.

Now funny this, but the days previous soft snow had frozen over night and the slopes were far more slippery than they had been. It had taken a little more effort to get down the run on this morning and I was lagging someway behind Dave. I thought however she would stop at the final descent and wait for me to catch up, but with wind in her hair, rucksack on her back and poles in hand she pushed herself over the edge and she was gone.

I trundled after her and could see ahead of me in the distance, Dave hurtling straight down the hill. No parallel turns, just straight down, speed building as she was going. I could just hear her experienced skier shouting after her as she herself tried to catch up, but Dave was seriously going for it!

I was unaware at the time that Dave had no intention of going THAT fast. She had got herself stuck in some previous skiers deep frozen tracks and couldn’t turn her skis to slow herself down.

With her rucksack flapping in the wind and her knees absorbing shock after shock as she hit icy mound after icy mound, Dave knew the only thing to do was to remain standing and wait until she arrived at the hillock where the sudden ascent would slow her down. But it didn’t. Dave was going so fast that she hit the hillock and like a rocket launched off of the top flying through the air and landing, on her feet, some metres away where she finally came to a stop.

About 10 minutes later I arrived at the hillock and reaching the top could see Dave still crouched holding her knees and shaking like a leaf. Her experienced skier was absolutely no help as she doubled over crying with laughter.

Poor Dave! Skiing has never been the same since. In fact I think it is true to say that she lost her appetite for skiing on that day.

So what is it, intrepid or stupid? You choose.