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After almost twenty-two years of marriage, I’ve come to the conclusion that the success of most relationships comes down to how well you compromise.

Neither the old man or myself are strong in that department, but when I agreed to go on the ski holiday as ‘company’ for him, I appeased myself with the knowledge that I had scored myself a billion brownie marital points, free access to the Mastercard, another few glorious nights sleeping alone in Kurt’s bedroom and a possible trip to Swarovski. However, I did set certain conditions, too: I wasn’t to be forced to ski for more than two hours a day; the old man had to wait for me at the bottom of each slope, no matter how slow I was; I could laugh my ass off when he fell over and we were to stop at a mountain café or bistro every hour for a hot chocolate with swirly cream on the top.

However, in a most unfortunate turn of events, the old man, (the instigator of this seven day shambles of a ski holiday), tore his calf muscle on day two.

The Ski Nazi could ski no more.

(Bitter, much?)

Now I’m not the resentful type, but this development in events put the whole premise of our ski holiday in a worrying state of flux. Our esteemed leader couldn’t ski, therefore he couldn’t lead, yet he still expected his troops to risk life and limb on the slopes to get value out of the exorbitant amounts of money he had chosen to waste on something some people might define as a holiday, but which most of us know secretly is akin to purgatory.

Lorena Ochoa on the practice range during the ...

Lorena Ochoa on the practice range during the Women’s British Open 2004 Pro-Am at Sunningdale Golf Club (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

On a scale of ‘one to as fucking miserable as you can possibly get’, NC and I have been close to the top end of that scale all week; at least until après-ski is officially unleashed. NB has diplomatically tried to jolly us along with hot chocolate incentives and promises of home-made Margaritas but it’s not the same without the old man to ridicule on the slopes.

We are grieving for the loss of the holiday we never wanted to go on in the first place and while the old man sits smugly in our over-heated apartment all day long, we are forced to crusade up and down bitterly cold, icy mountains, trying desperately not to break our neck on the way down.

And if things couldn’t get any worse, yesterday it started to snow while we were on the chairlift. So while the rest of the ski brigade punched the air in jubilation, NC and I felt our last reserves of fortitude dim that little bit more as we picked the snowflakes out of our teeth.

It just doesn’t seem right that the old man can catch up on every ‘how to swing your golf club’ archive on YouTube and pick his nails while we have to feign interest in the Christie turn with only the sagging ass of the oldest ski instructor in town to ogle at.

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