30. Bumps and bruises

Injuries seem to be the norm, which is not a surprise when considering what we do in our spare time: hurtle down slopes of various states of lumps and bumps or polished concrete-like ice, at a range of speeds in myriad levels of control, with two slippery planks secured to our feet. In reality it is more of a surprise that we aren’t in worse condition when taking our age into account. But we aren’t out of the game yet and can shame some much younger than ourselves.

Whilst not as bad as previous years my splatted left boob remains uncomfortable to lie on, although my left side is my sleeping position of preference, but I now struggle to lie on my right side at night. A Henry hoover launched itself off the top stair on changeover day and landed on my upper arm, somehow taking out my right little finger in the process. I lurched as I missed my footing when retreating backwards down the steep staircase I was vacuuming. A tug on the unstable casters saved me from potentially far worse consequences but that’s the price of rushing.

My forearms are already covered with bruises from dancing with door handles which successfully resist as I try to squeeze through when they are at the limit of their hinges. Unfortunately The Loft has several of these tight combinations as a few doors seem to by hung the wrong way round. Much do-si-do-ing has to be executed to get from our store room onto the back corridor or just to gain access to the bathroom in room 2, after entering the room and squeezing around the end of the bed. I do wonder how much consideration is given to opening directions by architects or whoever makes these decisions. Continuing to work and ski are probably good rehabilitation strategies, in my now extinct professional opinion.

I have to confess to injuring another on the slopes, unfortunately a rather small child. I demolished this little girl at the Waikiki snack bar beside a green piste. I could argue that her instructor took her too close to this establishment which meant that she was inside my left knee as I tried to turn in to stop. Her little body prevented me from executing the turn so I ploughed through her and into all the abandoned skis outside, including the bifurcated board advertising burger and vin chaud. I sustained injury only to my dignity but she was very brave for a little ‘un who had just been wiped out by a great lump of a woman (at least I’d lost some weight). The instructor managed to look concerned as he came charging back up hill on his skis to retrieve his poor student.
The signage may never recover but at least I was able to reunite the ski poles with their correct owner. I had collected myself and my kit from the pile and grabbed the blue poles which were set at opposing angles several feet apart as they would have been in my approximate landing position. It was only as we came to leave after chocolate chaud et frites that I realised they weren’t mine. Fortunately the owner was about to set off and searching for hers. Perhaps she may think twice about leaving her kit in such disarray, looking like a train crash, next time.

I spent some surreal time on the final morning of this past week’s guests discussing potential locations in Scotland for hunting (actually he meant shooting) with a Belgian who had booked a ski holiday in France via an English agent. This is not really my forte and I’m sure something was lost in translation, but triggered by the English Ski agent using a stag’s head as their logo. I am very cosmopolitan.

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