Ski Friday

I've never liked skiing. I say never, I've been twice, but the first time was so traumatic I was scarred for life. I say traumatic, it was mildly crap and I'm not that bothered about it, so I don't go.

It was on my year abroad in the Alps and my friends said they would teach me how to ski. For "teach" read "show me how to snow plough for two minutes and then ski off themselves leaving me stranded on the mountain with my now-ripped salopettes". I started off and soon realised there was no way I could stop, but in my only moment of clarity, I knew the only course of action was to fall over. Everyone else was doing it, so I thought why not. I fell, losing a ski in the process. Some kindly fellow skier (I use this term advisedly) brought it back for me, somehow avoiding the temptation to guffaw and metaphorically kick snow in my face.

Then the blizzard came down and the slopes were closed, leaving just me to spend the next two hours walking back down the piste to the ski station. I went skiing once again, but there was no spark. I ended the relationship and used the mountains only for casual lunchtime flings involving a baguette and some frites.

I once saw a dyslexic skier ask a tobogganist for twenty Marlboro Lights.