You know how it is when you get a real gut feeling about not wanting to do something? I had one of those feelings about skiing. It was the group holiday thing that freaked me out. The prospect of being crammed into a chalet with loads of jolly people - and their jolly noisy children - was not a pleasant one.
There were 5 adults and 7 kids in our party and five of those 7 kids were OPCs (other people's children). You have to be charming to OPCs even when they're driving you round the bend. You can't discipline them in front of their parents because it's bad form, and you can't tick them off in secret because the child will tell on you.
24 hours into our 'holiday', disease, in the form of a virulent gastroenteritis struck down its first victim. Five-year old Stuart suddenly threw up all over his duvet cover. 24 hours later it was my turn. After that, the disease spread like wildfire.
By the time the disease had run its course, everyone had missed at least two days skiing and it was time to go home. We were horribly delayed as the utterly disorganised airport staff loaded, unloaded and reloaded our luggage onto the correct plane. This added nine hours to our journey.
And then, the final and most bitter irony of the holiday. About an hour from home we hit a freak snow blizzard on the M1. My husband lapsed into a morose silence, then groaned, "You know, we really should have listened to you."
Yo!
Μύ
