This morning I set off for Ohakune. Haze promised ‘general frivolities’, so I’m quite looking forward to that. If there’s no frivolity of any nature, there’s going to be trouble. I am fully equipped: walking boots, hot water bottle, two duvets, bottle of port, lashings of thermal underwear, hats and scarves.
My internet connection has been acting up the last few days, so I’ve been cut off from the outside world. People can still call me, but the conversation swiftly disintegrates into colourful swearwords and the sound of the phone being battered off the table. Husband has been dealing with those crap artists at Slingshot, who were supposed to send an engineer this week. Well, that didn’t happen
At The Hangar the other night, a TV show featured stunt skiiers slaloming down cliffs, outrunning avalanches and dodging boulders.
Me: If I skiied, I’d be like that. Except I’d probably intersperse the skiing with random cartwheels.
Me: But I’m totally like that on a mountain bike.
Me: Did you just snigger?!
Husband: GOD no, sweetie. You’re Out There on a bicycle. Extreme. On the edge. Pushing it to the max.
Me: Yes! Exactly.
Andrew still talks about getting fit. It’s always a prolonged, energetic discussion so it must burn some calories. The only exercise he’s had in the last couple of weeks is another trip to Ski Dubai. This time we went with friends of ours, Pete and Em, who are roughly the same standard as Andrew and me respectively.
The boys swished off to race each other downhill, although every now and then they waited for us so they could throw snowballs.
Although I am doing much better and can achieve relatively high velocity (I am now bordering on swishing almost), I still attract the kamikazes. I seem to possess an irresistible sex appeal for nutters, weirdos, losers, combinations of all the above, and anyone yearning for co dependency.
This time, two blokes charged me from behind. I might have felt picked upon except that they then crashed into each other and fraggled out on the slope.
Now here’s what gets me – these psychotic Anti-Dudes never say sorry! Never! What is it about me? Do I look particularly unforgiving? (Admittedly, on this occasion I probably did.)
They always act like I should be apologizing to THEM for inconsiderately throwing myself under their skiis.
From the lift I heard Pete, who witnessed the whole thing, roaring: “Niamh! Get them!” I’m not sure whether he expected me to spank them with my snowboard or what.
I decided on shaming them.
Emma got there first.
“You know, you could at least say sorry,” she said in her cut glass accent.
I went for a more direct approach.
“Hey assholes! Yeah! I’m talkin’ to you, Punks Plural! What the fuck d’you think you’re playing at?” <10 second skunk-eye intermission>
“Sorry,” muttered Asshole #1.
“Sorry,” muttered Asshole #2.
“I should think so,” I snapped. “Be more careful the next time. Oh and by the way, when my husband catches up with you, he’s going to HURT you. Really badly.”
When Andrew did catch up, all he did was look cooler than them, which I’m sure cut them to the quick but was not as devastating to their cell structure as I had hoped