Ski Trip

I’d always thought Skiing was an upper middle class sport, something for the hoorays. But it was this time last year, a group of non-skiing friends said they were going to give it a try, and being an open minded sort of bloke I thought, ‘Why not?’

I hadn’t bargained for the amount of kit required, it cost me an arm and a leg but I did some shopping around and thank the Lord for the internet. Delivery vans were arriving daily from all manner of different suppliers. I was using so many different shops I lost track of what came from where.

I thought it would be a good idea to have a few lessons before the holiday. ‘You are guaranteed to be skiing after just three lessons,’ said the Ski Centre brochure.  So, at the end of lesson three, my pal was like an Olympic medallist and I was offered a free session with the remedial class. I only found out the following week that the remedials are put with the under sevens. Unfortunately there was only one remedial that week and I’m sure those under sevens emerged from the womb wearing skis.

On the first day of the holiday, I’m still upright half way down the nursery slope and feeling super confident. That’s when I remember that stopping isn’t my forte. I head into this cordoned-off area and become tangled in a web of nets and fencing. The ski poles are flying through the air, I’m clearly better at javelin than skiing, and my legs are all-akimbo. I’m flapping about like an oversized haddock and the more I struggle the more I become trapped in the netting.

Eventually, two instructors come to fish me out. You know the type. Sunglasses that make them look like aliens, neon stripes on their jackets, designer stubble. They come to a skidding halt less than an inch from me, spraying snow in a beautifully annoying arc that mainly lands on my goggles rendering me sightless. They don’t half make a big deal about unravelling me.

About an hour later we all meet up for coffee, a dozen of us in a big circle, basking in the sunshine. I’m sat opposite Julie, she’s from Bolton, and she’s trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. 

‘Flipping hec,’ she says. ‘What have you been doing? All your lagging‘s hanging out.’

I look down and my ski pants are split from knee to crotch and back down to the other knee. Julie’s right, the lagging is just about clinging on. Well, that was me done skiing for the day.

So it was a new pair of pants on day one. I wasn’t best pleased, especially since I had to buy them from the hotel ski shop at an extortionate price. I thought as soon as I get home I’ll be sending back those ripped pants, they’re not fit for purpose.

As far as I was concerned the rest of the week was largely uneventful and I didn’t get further than the nursery slope. Of course there was the usual minor ski injuries – one person came home in a full pot leg and another had three broken ribs. I’d spent a fortune in the coffee shop during the day and the bar every evening.

About a week later, I was still miffed about the ripped trousers, so I packed them up and posted them to the Chairman of a well-known sports outfitters. I politely but firmly requested my money back plus compensation for all the upset. I have to say it was a very persuasive letter. 

Nothing. I waited three weeks and was about to write again when a package arrived with a letter from the supplier. It said,

Dear Sir

We were very sorry to hear about the terrible skiing accident on your recent holiday. Your ordeal sounded awful, most embarrassing. We were so relieved that you didn’t sustain any physical injury and we completely agree that the ski trousers you purchased were not fit for purpose.

However, we are returning the damaged trousers to you because you didn’t buy them from us.

Yours sincerely 

Skishop