Snowfalls

Snowfalls

"Which part of Australia are you from?" enquired Bill, my patient,
avuncular ski instructor, hoisting me to my feet yet again.

I giggled, despite my saturated bum and skewed limbs. "I'm actually
English." Admittedly there are similarities between Black Country and
Aussie - both are long-vowelled, whiny dialects - and Americans have
this charming tendency to assume only regal tones emanate from English
mouths.

Vertical once more, I irritably dusted snow flecks from my fleece and
scowled with involuntary envy as my boyfriend Nathan and his brother
Jeremy went whizzing effortlessly down the steepest peak.

During our fortnight at Jeremy's Pennsylvanian home, I learned there
are few things colder or more gorgeous than an American winter. But
what a different cold to the slushy, murky British variety! The air
carried a distinct snap; a clean, fresh feel. It exhilarated, rather
than dispirited, one. Spiky icicles dangled from every tree, making
pretty, glassy sounds as the faint breeze rattled them together. Such a
magical, Christmassy vista!

How I yearned for the courage to launch myself down a mountainside like
Nathan, with that exhilarating wind prickling my face! Instead I was
stuck in the beginners' class - waddling in ungainly boots; itchy under
layer upon layer of borrowed thermals - where it was all I could do to
stay upright for two minutes together on an incline gentler than your
average speed hump. Nath was an accomplished skier, but I was an indoor
girl! Writing convoluted chapters was as physical as I ever got.

"Come on, Leigh - let's do it this time!" urged Bill. He was a kindly
sort, whose Uncle Albert beard matched the surface upon which he made
his living.

Right! I rammed my skis determinedly into the snow and inched up the
slope. My feet formed a wobbly V?I hurtled clumsily
downwards?swerved?and landed with another less than balletic whump into
the downy white.

I vowed to stick to writing in future.