Bloody valentine's day, I hate it. Mrs Wild & I exchange cards & a peck on the cheek before donning knee supports, blister plasters, thermal underwear, matching skin tight yellow & pink spandex suits & expensive instruments of torture, otherwise known as ski boots.
We deliver Master W to his ski lesson (Category - British Olympic hopeful; Target - basic snowplough) and off we set for the bubble lift. After intensive queuing (French style) we barge our way into a cable car and arrive, exhausted, at the summit. We head to the cafteria for a rest.
Suitably fortified we head back down, in the bubble lift, to collect Master W at the end of his lesson, have lunch and our afternoon nap.
Back up in the bubble, and we hit the piste. We speed, stylishly, down the nursery slope as the locals cast admiring glances at our outfits. But it's a bit chilly, so we head back down for tea, cake, a hot bath & dinner.
There is mild excitement during the evening as, for reasons best known to himself, one of our party plunges headlong down the chalet stairs into the basement. Fortunately he appears to suffer nothing worse than a mild concussion, carpet burn to the forehead, and fractured ribs & wrist. We allow him a strict ration of ice for his ribs (ensuring sufficient remains for our G&Ts) & set his wrist such that his fingers adopt a beer bottle holding shape, & the evening continues successfully.
Early to bed in anticipation of another very busy day tomorrow.
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