I got a fuzzy picture by email today of the children on their first ever black slope. They are quite difficult to spot and, I would hazard, stuck in a snowdrift, but what do I know? Nothing. I hate skiing, it's all imminent peril and synthetic fibres and their attendant static electric shocks and the kind of people who would crush me underfoot in any kind of stampede wooshing up behind me at high speed as I flail around in a crabbed snowplough. There is a reason I have not gone with them.
(I know skiing is unspeakably bourgeois if you are English, but they are basically French (or possibly Belgian) and I tell myself the rules don't apply. Anyway, L has to go on a two week ski trip with the gulag in a fortnight and it is a bog standard state school and all pupils in the last year of primary state education in Belgium seem to do this, so I am sticking by my guns, no need to put them up against the wall come the revolution. Weasel justification over).
It was accompanied by a short message. L's part read "I only fell over three times on THE BLACK which is called 'Le Couloir de la Sonnerie' which sounds like an alarm clock, dring! there goes the couloir de la sonnerie, not a very impressive name". F's read "I only fell over once on the BLACK. Apart from that everything is ok I've just got out of the pool we love you."
(except it was all in French, because they are French and thus skiing is ok, remember)
So that was nice, and possibly the nicest thing all day, which M and I jointly considered to be one of our whiniest days in the long and august history of our joint whining (I wondered, briefly, if I should give up whining for Lent, but I know it is physically impossible and I am not a Catholic, or indeed, an anything). Also on the positive side of the ledger, it is mild and sporadically sunny and I have made spinach béchamel pasta gratin which is my other most favourite food no one else likes (my giant vat of dal was a slightly over-salted, but otherwise roaring, success). On top of that, Prog Rock is sending me emergency teabags, so honestly, what am I complaining about? Nothing. Shut up, me.
44% abject mental crapness
15% bad knees
5% dodgy skin
5% Glen Baxter joy
4% nascent kitchen based OCD
4% warm thoughts about Prog Rock
2% Tom Lehrer earworms
1% irrational fear of ending up in front of a Grand Jury after finishing House of Cards.