I came skiing with Dave because it sounded so romantic. I’m not so good with words but I’ll try to tell you how he described it.
‘As I stomp my feet and I look out at the ski slope,’ he told me. ‘The morning sun slants across it, smudging the snow here and there with pale blue shadow. The shadows remind me of a woman’s touch, feather light and inviting. A sophisticated woman, a woman who has met the world on her terms, who has looked at temptation but is still virginal, a lady.
‘In the early morning she has no scars, no wrinkles or blemishes, no one has used her and her dress is stiff and smooth like a wedding gown.
‘Here and there the trees show black against the white, their branches bending under the weight of their surcoat of snow. Rocks, their grey tinged with pink and veined with white look out from the thickness of snow, not yet bleak in full sun but adding to the serenity before me.
‘The snow is firm, not the powdery feathers that blow about in the tiny swirls of wind that stir from time to time, but creamy and stiff, grunting under my feet.
‘My breath comes in puffs of mist as I pick up my skis and make for the lift. The air stings my lungs and I pull my scarf over my mouth to warm the air I breathe.
‘This is the best time, the time of anticipation, the time to remember the feel of the skis as they grip in the turn and hiss quietly when they are allowed to run free.
‘A time that must be enjoyed because the snow woman will stand no daydreaming lovers. She demands commitment and concentration. She will create an exhilaration beyond care in those who are willing to give their all, trust her to hold them in the turn, to let you fly free as you straighten and run like an arrow.
‘For those who want to take her on their terms, refusing her invitation, she is hard work, like a worn out washerwoman.
‘To me, she is a queen, to be called to mind in moments of stress when the world wants to overwhelm life with care.’
Well, what do you think, wouldn’t you have given it a try?
It snowed again last night and Dave went off this morning, smiling like a sixth former who has just lost his virginity.
The waiter has left the breakfast; at least IT’S hot.
I don’t know why I’ve stayed really, the boots hurt my feet and you clump about like a clown with those big shoes on. All those adverts which show you slinky bitches smiling as they skim down pristine slopes are just one great.. well, advert really.
When you get out there you’re nice and warm but the cold gets in everywhere and, before you even start, the snow’s melting inside the boots.
Those gloves that look so stylish in the ads are fur lined and as much use for holding things like sticks as boxing gloves in a kitchen.
When you see ski suits on the models they look like a second skin of course. They take those photos in Bermuda, in summer. Those suits are all too small, made for anorexics, you can’t get a decent jumper or anything underneath, and they’re like deep-sea divers outfits when you try to do anything but fall over.
I smiled madly of course to make him think I was enjoying it but, this morning, I told him, ‘No darling, I’d love to, but I really must get some work done on that new presentation.’
Why I’m not just honest and tell him to push off and leave me by the fire I really don’t know.
That mountain always seems ready to fall over but apparently the snow is nice and firm. That still means your feet sink in and it’s like hobbling in the sea with gumboots full of water.
Everyone envied me when I told them I was coming to skim down the slopes. Maybe it is, if you skim, but every time I stand on those skis I fall on my backside.
Lean forward, they tell me, lean forward.
When I do, the damn things just rush me away and as soon as I try to stand up, bang on to my rear end.
Of course everyone laughs, and ‘one’ must join in the fun – jolly bloody hockey sticks and all that.
I wonder how long Dave will be, I have to have my lap top looking busy when he comes back or he’ll guess, and next time dear Cynthia will be ‘absolutely delighted’ to come.
I could of course go out and meet him, but he’ll be full of that ‘joy’ thing and I’ll have to be supportive.
This is my third cup of coffee and I can’t really wait here much longer but I’m waiting for her to appear. The woman I really admire. She’ll have sent her brood off with Papa, “cocktails at six dear”, and come in to enjoy a leisurely breakfast, then a session in the beauty parlour, or a peek into the jewellers for something to match that new dress she bought yesterday.
Now SHE can SKI.