Friday, 29 March 2013

The Slippery Slope

Instead of Chick Chat Sunday it’s Chick Chat Good Friday.  Why?  Because I won’t be here on Easter Sunday!  Tomorrow I’m flying off to Les Arcs in France for a week’s fantabulous skiing.  Mr V is opting out (again) on the grounds that he’s lost interest.  Absolutely nothing to do with creaking knees or a dodgy back.
            ‘So what would you like me to fill the freezer with?’ I asked my husband.  ‘Steak and kidney pies?  Lasagnes?  Cod and chips?’
            ‘Nope,’ Mr V shook his head.  ‘I’m eating super healthy stuff while you’re away.’
            ‘Okay,’ my pencil hovered over my shopping list, ‘so we’re talking salads?  Tins of tuna?  Salmon?  Nuts and seeds?’
            ‘Buy me a large carton of milk and a box of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes.’
            ‘And what else?’
            ‘You’re going to spend an entire week eating cornflakes?’
            ‘What, as in breakfast...lunch...dinner...nothing but cornflakes?’
            Mr V frowned.  ‘Actually make that two boxes.’
            I chucked my pencil down.  Ah well.  He won’t starve.  That’s why God invented takeaway shops.
            Dolly the cat will be going to the local cattery.  She knows something’s up.  She’s looking at the suitcases with eyes as round as saucers.  Likewise the pooch will go to the kennels.  She’s an old hand at reading the signs and the suitcases immediately saw her tail between her legs and a look of resignation.  Why can’t Mr V look after them?  Well would you entrust the care of pets to a man all set to survive on cornflakes for the week??!!
            The suitcases are almost packed.  All that awaits is a snowy adventure.  That said I hope it will be a safe adventure and free from iffy moments.  Like the time I fell down a crevasse and hysterically demanded helicopter rescue before my husband risked life and limb pulling me out...only to fall down another crevasse himself.  Or the time we went skiing in Italy, did one last run before the chairlifts closed, ended up in France and had to take a three hour taxi drive back to our hotel at a cost of two hundred Euros.  Or the time we again got lost, ended up doing an off-piste black run which resulted in legs like jelly and an overwhelming need to consume a stiff drink or six for shock.  That’s the only time in my life I’ve ever been hopelessly drunk.  I can still remember watching the road going up and down and loudly warning others to wait for the big waves to pass.  But I’m 99% sure nothing is going to go wrong this time.
            Which reminds me.  Did you know old skiers never die.  They just go downhill...


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