But in truth I’m lost for words
The luxury bit is over. I’m writing this on the sofa of our apartment where, it turns out, I will have to Do Things For Myself. It’s quite the shock, let me tell you. Nonetheless, I shall struggle womanfully on, with the terrible view of Mont Chéry, the big sunny balcony, the two minute walk to the ski lifts and the one minute walk to our favourite bar, which has magically reopened like some kind of miracle.
As usual, it’s been a busy couple of days chez nous. Our last day of skiing with Tom started well, with sunshine and quiet pistes.
It also involved Nick doing what he calls a Technical Dismount off the Ranfoilly lift and what his wife calls Being A Dick. The outcome was a twisted knee for me and the look of death for Nick.
The lovely Tom looked after me magnificently, including getting me down a very icy red run without a meltdown when I couldn’t turn at all due to the aforementioned injury.
Yesterday was moving day, followed by two rugby matches. Sometimes it’s hard to be a Celt, and supporting Wales is certainly a lifestyle choice that shouldn’t be taken lightly. I’d received a clear instruction that I was to support Scotland, in spite of any risk to life and limb as they went up against a pretty relentless French team. One of my limbs was already banjaxed and so, being the woman who always does as she’s told, I did exactly that. In a pub packed to the rafters with French supporters.
To be honest, the less said about the outcome of both games the better – I had more entertainment from the usual argy bargy messages from friends at home. I suspect the Wales France game in a couple of weeks’ time will be interesting to say the least.
Today is an enforced rest day, ahead of a pile of work tomorrow. It’s a stunning day and whilst I’d love nothing more than to be up the hill on my skis, my roaring hangover and I are being taken to Lac de Montriond, which isn’t a bad alternative.