So it wasn’t enough for this crazy bitch to move house and work like a dog over the past two weeks; she now has to prove her absolute stupidity by heading off to the slopes for a skiing holiday.
Thredbo is no Hayman Island.
I could lie and pretend that I am excited at the prospect. But I know you wouldn’t believe me.
To be honest I was rather counting on the snow being a no-show this early in the season and then global-warming got in the way of my scheming and dumped some mass of 50cms of coldness which made it virtually impossible for me to find an excuse NOT to ski.
I am looking forward to this little sojourn in the fucking freezing cold about as much as plucking nipple hairs without the anaesthetic of a good wine.
I blame the old man.
This skiing malarkey is all part of his sad-ass mid-life male crisis. Frankly, I wish he’d just bought a penis-extension of a car instead.
I’d be quite happy to nest for the next week in my new apartment with its sauna heating and shiny new-ness, surrounded by my new Ikea creations.
What I don’t want to be doing is risking life, limb and dignity on snow, challenging snowboarders as target practise and forced to wear fugly, extended layers that add volume to my already voluminous physique.
I realise that I give the old man a hard time in this blog but this is serious pay back for him.
I am either a sucker or a martyr to marriage.