Pants. Seat of

So the tumour is 4.4 millimetres which is genuinely micro in terms of what is allowed to live behind your eyes at the base of your brain. 

Blood tests are imminent, as are some acupuncture sessions to persuade Mr Migraine to bother someone with a 'macro' tumour who is not a nice person, or Tony Abbott; whatever's easiest.  Nothing unfamiliar for me to worry about, but I won't be upset at not having to wake up with a faceful of Exedrin and go to bed with a codeine nightcap.

On to nicer things.

As regular readers would have guessed, we Locketts are not known for wild and crazy purchases.  Darling DeLonghi coffee machine was Love Chunks' essential buy, as was my treadmill (used for hanging damp bedsheets on when my Achilles is playing up, but gratefully used again today after the flu symptoms have largely gone); and Sapphire seems pleased enough with her H&M threads that are, thankfully, viewed as acceptably cool by even the rich kids at her school. No, she's not one of them.

So, when LC suggested we pop into the city to get him a skiing helmet and then a coffee, I was only mildly interested in going.  Enjoying his company was the only reason that got me onto the tram, as Manor in January Sale mode is not a fun activity.  Rich Genevan women are just as aggressive when fighting over cheap knitwear as pensioners in Harris Scarfes.

But then, we saw them.  Vertical lines of gleaming new skis, column after column after column.  Prices were reduced by fifty percent and nearby the helmets lurked, the perfect size for LC's rather compact-sized noggin. In a split second, he shoved one on my small-sized skull as well. It fit like a glove, even if I did resemble a black billard ball with green boogers for eyes.  Damon came over and pointed upwards to a sign dangling from the ceiling. "Take another twenty per cent off everything."

We were hooked.

An hour later, we farewelled Damon, our new best friend, and sidled rather awkwardly out of the sports section and up the escalators to the tram stop, laden with two sets of skis, poles, boots, helmets, waterproof pants (LC), goggles (moi), carrier bags and gloves.

"I'm frightened now," I whispered to him on the tram. "This means that I'm committed, doesn't it?"

He answered only with a big, smug grin.

And so, Sunday saw us get up at the crack of seven AM to meet up with four other crazies in Crozet to ski.  My fumbling fingers nervously tried to zip up my warm boots, idly noticing the appropriateness of the brand......

...... and hoping that the rest of my gear would somehow camouflage me so that when I invariably fell people would only see a foolish beginner and not some clueless knob in brand new clobber.

Having endured several weeks of migraine, flu, uncertainty, unfair disagreements and friends suffering all manner of awful accidents and undeserved misfortunes, I wasn't feeling particularly brave when Steve pointed down the very steep, icy hill and said, "Yes, it's a shocker of a way to start, but if you can survive this, you can survive anything."

Off he whooshed, grace and style packed into a six-foot-four fifty-something frame.  Twenty year old Chrissie bravely jumped off next, youth and confidence instantly remembering the first and only skiing she'd done in year eight; and Pommy bloke Tim and LC stood next to me.  "Just follow us and take your time. We'll wait for you."

And wait they did. All four of them. They must have desperately wanted to go for red runs over my sedate green and blues but not once were there any obvious signs of boredom or impatience or eye rolling.  My skills were the bottom of the barrel to their shiny apples floating on top but they generously peppered me with praise, provided some useful (and non patronising) tips and truckloads of encouragement.

It wasn't the horizontal snow storm, bracing winds or lingering cold that caused my eyes to fill with tears; it was the realisation that I was gliding down what was a summer road now all powdery white, edged with nothing but Christmas card pine trees and silence.  Tim saw me get out the tissue. "This is what we all moved here for," he said, Russian hat-flaps flying like beagle ears in a BMW as he slid past.

By lunch time and eight runs down the hill with Lake Leman glinting in the distance, I was triumphant: not one fall.  Even light-on-his-feet Love Chunks had almost gone for a gutzer but miraculously managed to save himself by doing a rather good version of the splits in his polyester pants. He swiftly recovered to zoom ever onwards. 

Sadly, as in all good stories, my reckoning was yet to come. With a belly full of hot chips, raspberry tart and pineapple juice, my nemesis was waiting: the six-person, open air chairlift.  This souless set of mechanical seats was encrusted in ice physically and spiritually, accepting no fumbles or clueless newbies. The other four were standing on the right mark, butts poised, ski poles in hand. I can't honestly recall where my feet, arse or poles were positioned but obviously not correctly.  

WHAM! the foot rests of the chairlift smacked me flat to the ground and somehow my brain had enough functioning cells to force me to stay lying there as the cruel metal contraption ran lightly over me and continued on its merry way, my four faithful companions now swinging over the peaks and waving frantically at me. "No worries," I croaked, "I'm fine."

Queueing onlookers may not have cared so much for my well-being as my clumsy collapse caused the entire lift to shut down when an attendant hoisted me to my feet, found my left ski several metres away and shoved me onto another one with a taciturn Italian snowboarder. 

"You eez new to these sport, eh?"  Er, yes, as it happens.  He pointedly started the other way for the remainder of our journey to the mountain top.

Reckonings continued as I discovered just what veterans of the slopes mean when the body says 'no more, even if you think you've still got the energy for it and the light is still good.'  By 3pm, my legs and arms refused to obey even the simplest of commands and my considerably-large rear end ballooned even larger as  my pants filled out with fresh scrapings of snow after each skidding cartwheel.  LC rescued me many times, my limbs now actively declining to function - let alone assist him - to lift my reluctant weight out of the side of the mountain and back up onto two thin planks of forgiving plywood.

With a slightly dented right-hand pole and ice shavings in my eyebrows, it was time to call it a day.

"I was so proud of you up there," Love Chunks said, swishing over in his waterproofs to try and fit his arm around my goose-down-packed parka-clad waist. 

"Me too," I replied, feeling the beginnings of a bruise on my knee and elbow.  "When are we doing this again?"