Despite very occasional altercations with T Bars, I regard myself as a competent skier. I accept, however, that I have no ambition to ascend to the tops of peaks using skis and skins like Outdoor and Apprentice Men, but even so I can get down anything pisted intact and with skis parallel. That my ability is unappreciated by those closest to me is somewhat obvious, especially now that Little Girl can descend faster than me.
The fact that I overtake many and more on the way down is irrelevant. I am simply unable to ski as fast as the rest of my family and have become the subject of the children’s jokes; the years spent nurturing their prowess forgotten. Instead and until either old age or an injury catches up with Outdoor Man, I am destined to bring up the rear, wearing a luminous yellow hat so that I can be easily spotted from afar and not because it is either fetching or suits my complexion.
Dismissed as boring, not seriously hard core or even “uncool” must be the plight of many women of a certain age, on both the ski-slopes and elsewhere. No wonder that so many resort to employing the services of a younger, good–looking, sun-tanned ski instructor.
Family you are being warned. I shall not be carrying the lip-salve, camera, euros, time or any other provisions you desire next time we ski. No, next time I’ll be off with Helmut or Stefan.