My View - Wednesday March 1 2017
It's unusual for us to start a family holiday without someone being sick, but this half term we scored a honking hat-trick. Three mornings in a row, my-twelve-year old daughter parted with her petit dejeuner on a French pavement.
It was the first time we'd all been on a skiing holiday, so on day one, I put it down to excitement, nerves and altitude. At least we actually made it to the resort this time round. When we flew out to Palma, I had to catch the contents in my scarf mid-flight. She gets it from me, I'm afraid. A big day or exam usually involves some kind of gastric reaction and it's pot luck which way the goods choose to exit my body.
On the second day of our vomiting vacation, I wondered if she'd been a bit shaken up by a fight we'd seen on the coach from the airport. Two overtired dads had squared up about the behaviour of their respective sons. It ended in a headlock, tears and my husband having to fill out a witness form. We were all quite scared to be honest.
But it didn't match the fear I felt on the third morning of malady, when I braced myself for the question no mother wants to ask her pre-teen daughter: "Is there any way, at all, you think you could be pregnant?" The eye rolling reply was monumental. I doubt there's been one so derisive from a daughter to mother since hormones were invented. But it was a huge relief, backed up by the reassuring downturn in my ten year old's health later that afternoon. Phew, it was a bug.
When Sam (th'usband) then got a temperature, it turned out to be nothing to do with germs and everything to do with his cut-price salopettes. We'd gone to that well known warehouse which caters for families trying to appear outdoorsy, and he refused to pay more than twenty quid for what he called 'fancy waterproofs'. The lack of nether region ventilation zips made him so sweaty that he had to re-wear Saturday's travelling underpants on Sunday night to stay on schedule for the rest of the week.
I came off lightly in terms of illness and injury, receiving just one bruised buttock when a portly Swiss pensioner snow-ploughed into me after a boozy lunch. But seven days is quite sufficient for a ski trip for me, because it's just not relaxing. Particularly when you get a text on the morning of departure which reads: "Today is the end of European school holidays. High volumes of traffic are expected. Please pack plenty of water and snacks." We thought it best for all concerned if we travelled on an empty stomach, especially as my scarf was last seen dangling off a drag lift in Montriond.