The Evils of Skiing

There's no denying it - skiing goes against all the basic attractions of a holiday: It's freezing cold, your alarm goes off at 8.30am, and at least four hours of each day involves some pretty strenuous exercise. But that aside, it's actually brilliant fun. However, I have discovered four consistent evils of such a holiday, which I think are worth passing on to better prepare anyone who's thinking of going:

1. Goggles
Nobody, I stress nobody, can pull off goggles. If you're lucky, you'll end up looking like an extra from a WHAM Christmas number one, but the majority of us just resemble a large bug. Or throw on a neckwarmer pulled up to the eyes and you're a Dalek.

2. Arrogant children who are faster than you
This is unavoidable, as they have no fear. And rightly so; they've got half as far to fall as adults do, and their bones will repair twice as fast. But be assured, they will learn. It might involve a strategically placed ski pole, but they will learn...

3. Button Lifts
They take you nowhere and it's virtually impossible to look mature or remain upright whilst on one. Especially when it turns a corner and you become another victim of the crossed-ski pile-up. It's like being back in the playground, having proven yourself inadequate for the see-saw. But regular lifts aren't faultless either - there's always one which looks slow and reliable, until it's about 2 meters behind you, when the bastard gains speed, drops two foot and takes you out from the calves.

4. Ice
There will come a point when you think you're getting the hang of this skiing lark and feel ready to execute some expert posing. When this moment comes, don't EVER take your eyes off the piste. There will always be a patch of ice hidden just below the powder, ready to whip away a ski just when you're at your most smug.

Doomed by Darcy

This is a message to all my nearest and dearest. There is a very strong likelihood that you may not see me again for some time. You will be greatly missed. I, on the other hand, apparently will not. And therefore, I will be contactable only via the knocking down of my front door, dragging me out from beneath a pit of duvets and prising the Ben and Jerry’s from my desperate clasp.

Yesterday, my worst fears were confirmed. Until recently, the main thing seeing me through my current state of singledom was the naive assumption that maybe, just maybe, my knight in shining armour would one day turn up at my workplace and whisk me away in a fantastic Officer and a Gentleman style exit, ready to begin our rose-tinted life together. Admittedly, this is a bit far-fetched, but the sentiment has always been there, leading me to hope that I might not have to endure my days alone in front of the TV with a bottle of wine and the rest of last night’s curry.

But I now have verification that this is never going to happen. It has officially been confirmed. Not by a friend over an emotional and enlightening three bottles of wine. Not by the insensitive, overpaid columnists of today’s glossy magazines. Not even by my Mother (who will always tell me the truth no matter how much it hurts). It has been proven by scientists. Actual professionals. With research and evidence and statistics. And it hurts.

According to a group of researchers in Edinburgh, women like myself who envelop themselves in the beautiful world of Rom Coms are more likely to die sad and alone. Well, they didn’t use those exact words, but they may as well have. Apparently, these sensationalised chick flicks fill their viewers’ minds with unrealistic expectations of love, causing them to sabotage their relationships for not being ‘perfect’.

Unfortunately, I can see their point (hence the duvet-hiding and potential death-by-ice cream). But some of their other findings are just ridiculous, and quite frankly insulting.

For example, and I quote: “Researchers found fans of films such as Runaway Bride and Notting Hill often fail to communicate with their partner.” I resent that. Runaway Bride happens to be one of my all-time favourites and, if anything, I have the longstanding female problem of communicating too much with my partners.

Probably the most extraordinary claim was that: “Marriage counsellors often see couples who believe that sex should always be perfect”. Who are they kidding? Anyone who had ever had perfect sex please raise their hands. Most of the women I know consider simply achieving an orgasm an accomplishment. And besides, I was under the impression that after about ten or so years of marriage, sex becomes more of a chore than a pleasure…and one which would be happily substituted for a ten-minute shoulder rub and an hour of ITV Drama.

So really, either way I’m screwed. Either I live out my days as a spinster, watching repeats of the Rom Coms that lead to my demise, or as an old married woman whose husband gets more aroused by Jeremy Clarkson speeding round a racetrack than by the sight of me in a lacy undergarment.

Right, that’s it, pass me a spoon…

The Most Beautiful Bride in the World

I used to wonder how one woman could see another in a wedding dress for the first time and proclaim, with such conviction, that she is “The most beautiful bride in the world”: a statement which is both highly unlikely and overwhelmingly cliché. We’ve seen it in films, time and time again…the initial intake of breath, hands clasped dramatically to chests, relatives beaming with pride and grandma scrambling for her travel tissues. But I’d always secretly assumed that in real life the scene would be more rational and downplayed than the melodrama we see on the screen.

I was wrong. I told myself I wouldn’t cry. I allowed myself the naïve assumption that I could withstand the emotion of it all. And thus, I went in unarmed…

The fitting was for my beautiful cousin Hannah who is marrying a wonderful man this September, and I was under the assurance that this was THE dress. So I sat alongside various female relatives in the airy reception area and waited for her to appear (obviously whilst scanning the hangers for my own wedding dress - hypothetical, of course, and assuming that I won’t die sad and alone. Although given my current romantic status, this is an alarming possibility).

She didn’t so much appear, as float: descending down the carpeted hallway, commanding the awed attention of everyone else in the small boutique. The dress was inexplicably beautiful, lovingly detailed and perfectly shaped…but it was the beaming smile on Hannah’s face that had my eyes filling in seconds.

Deck the Halls

I’m sorry, was that Christmas? I appear to have missed it.

It only seems a week ago that I was condemning shops selling tinsel in September and now here we are, four days post-Christmas, lumbered with 94 cards, seven unused crackers and five vats of turkey soup. I didn’t even manage to put the decorations up until the 22nd, and now I’m going to have to dismantle them all again. Ah screw it, they’re staying put – I’m extending Christmas!

But aside from being somewhat fleeting, Christmas in our household was successfully merry this year. Apart from the moment I discovered that Mum had put ‘Time Delay’ wrinkle reducing syrum in my stocking. When I asked her if she was trying to tell me something, the reply was “Well of course not lovely, but you can never start too early”. Fantastic. I’m awaiting a brochure on back pillows to fall through the letterbox any day now. However, I did feel slightly reassured when my brother pulled soap out of his stocking. He didn’t bother asking whether he was supposed to be taking a hint.

On the whole the present selection under our tree this year was brilliant. With the exception of the gifts from our wonderful but mildly insane elderly neighbour, whose idea of Christmas shopping involves a shufty round her house for anything she no longer wants. This year’s treats included two candles with the wicks cut off, and an ornament of two snowmen with wire arms, glued together at the torso. But it’s the thought that counts.

In keeping with our family tradition, Christmas day began with me waking my brother up at an unreasonable hour to open our stockings together, sat on the floor in the hallway. When I first started waking him up on Christmas day, I think he only got out of bed to humour me because I was so excited. Now, I’m still just as excited but I’m also ten years older, and I think next year an 8am wake-up call might genuinely piss him off. The rest of the day consisted of champagne (again, at an unreasonable hour of the morning) followed by steady drinking with family friends until lunch at 4pm. Then of course comes the plentiful array of BBC Christmas specials, at which point Dad falls asleep in his chair and wakes up just in time for our evening film. This year’s movie was Harry Potter.

After this point, we are usually starting to flake so we either go to bed or re-fill our glasses. However, this year we had a family gathering the following day to prepare for (why they choose to do this on a day when we are guaranteed to be hungover I have no idea). This involved re-tidying the house and preparing cheery answers to “So, how’s the job going?”, “Don’t you look like your mother?” (which, given that I apparently need anti-wrinkle cream, is probably more uncomfortably accurate this year than ever), and finally, the dreaded: “So, any new men on the scene we should know about?”. Considering that my aunts and mother spend at least two hours a day gossiping on the phone, they must know that I am still single, and I can therefore never understand if they ask this question out of spite, or because they think it might re-enforce the importance of finding a male.

So, in typical English manner, the only real complaint I have this year is about the weather. I was sure that the freezing temperatures we’ve had to endure was a tell tale sign that we could anticipate a beautiful white Christmas. Oh well. You can’t have everything…but I live in hope.

So, to all of you reading this, here’s a slightly belated but still wholly enthusiastic MERRY CHRISTMAS! And a very happy 2009.

'Tis the season to be...

So this is the first time in seven years that I’ve had to endure singledom at Christmas. I never thought I’d say this, but all the complaining, cynicism and eventual drowning in wine and tears suffered by singles at this time of year is completely justified. Suddenly the things that I used to find endearing while I was blissfully happy, like couples ice skating or gazing into each other’s eyes over coffee, now just makes me want to hurl baubles at them. Or tell myself that he is probably cheating and she must be awful in bed.

It wouldn’t be so unbearable if I could do all the things I want to do to keep my mind off the fact that nobody loves me. But no, everywhere I go is chock-full with happy couples. They’re riding the tube, cuddling in the theatre, walking hand in hand in the park. Even buying books together in Waterstones. I’m not sure if there are more of them this year, of if it’s just more apparent now that I am looking through the eyes of a single. Either way, I’ve had enough.

I am not leaving the house until Christmas is over and all those warm festive feelings that have been flying around are replaced with the empty feeling of depression that arrives every January. I will curl up in front of the fire, consume endless amounts of mulled wine and mince pies, and watch every episode of Sex and the City that reminds you that men are the devil and that the most important relationship is the one you have with yourself.

God Bless

God bless the person who decided to put chocolate in advent calendars.

According to Wikipedia, this was the clever invention of 1950's chocolate manufacturers, who managed to successfully cash in on Christmas and boost their sales immeasurably. But I can't help but think that, while gross profit may have been the original function of sugar-filled calendars, surely their primary purpose today is to give everyone an excuse to eat chocolate before 7am?

Not that I've ever needed one.

There's no escaping it

That'll teach me. After weeks of hearing my peers sniffling and sneezing I foolishly let myself believe that I might finally make it through one Winter without sleepless nights and an endless supply of Kleenex. But in true cruel fashion, Karma has punished me for my presumtuous assumptions and reduced me to my current state of self-pity and Lemsip.

But in fairness to Karma, I probably heightened the situation with a three hour, predominantly uphill walk in the rain on Sunday morning. Which not only left me freezing an drenched, but also with the feeling that I had squatted a small horse. That alone probably deserves the punishment. Who gets up at 10am on a Sunday, and on seeing that it's raining, thinks "Yes, a walk might be just what I need"?

So hear I am, miserable and suffering...any sympathy welcome.