‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…. it was the Spring of hope, it was the Winter of despair…”

– Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities  (Chapter 1)

Sapphire is going skiing! She, and everyone else on the plane, knows that she is going skiing because Sapphire’s Mummy (definitely with a capital M) keeps telling her this and, by default, everyone else sat in the metal tube bound for Geneva, early in the morning. Lo, we have already witnessed the delights of Sapphire’s Mummy dragging her to the plane on her wheeled suitcase – “SIT ON YOUR TRUNKI, SAPPHIRE AND LET MUMMY PULL YOU ALONG”. The journey is going to be a treat for all those who enjoy a parental narrative. If you don’t,  you’re stuck with it just the same.

Forget having a snooze, contemplating life in companionable silence or perhaps reading a book quietly; little Sapphire is hitting the slopes and her Mummy wants to tell everyone all about it, whether we like it or not. “Sapphire, you are going to go to Ski School with all the French children, and YOU WILL LOVE IT!” (At this point, most of the passengers, now woken from their attempted slumbers, are thinking: No, actually Sapphire you won’t – but we’ll let you find that one out for yourself, you poor child).

Also aboard the plane for this adventure is Sapphire’s maiden Aunt (I’m allowed to say this, I am also one), who sits smiling nervously across the aisle in the manner of a woman who hasn’t had time for the usual three cups of tea that morning, but has had time to braid her hair into “fun” plaits and clutch a rucksack to her, which, one suspects, might contain a few “miniatures” to get her through what should be a fascinating trip.

Sapphire’s Mummy is however full of woes. “ Geneva is an hour ahead, darling” she sighs. “So it will be even harder to speak to Daddy in Doha.” (Cue further sighing and juggling of two i-phones). “Now, Sapphire, Mummy had bought you a COMIC and WHATEVER YOU DO, you MUST NOT lose the dolly’s shoes (It transpires that the alarming-looking dolly is attached to said comic with some coated wire round her neck, wearing fetching pink high heels). Oh NO, Aunty Amber, Sapphire has lost a shoe. Can you find it?” Aunty Amber can’t. She’s too busy wondering if she can get back on the next plane from Geneva.

So began my most recent holiday in March this year. I hadn’t been skiing for three years, so agreed readily to throw myself on the tender mercies of Les Gets (a resort, not a man – don’t get excited) when my super organised friends P and J set about organising the trip last year. And so it was that we ended up in Hotel Les Marmottes (I do love a marmot) for a few nights – and hit the slopes.

My transfer bus from Geneva to Les Gets is slightly gloomy. No one says anything. At all. As someone with about 30,000 words a day to expel, I find silence rather difficult and am thrilled when I am dropped off just so that I can greet the receptionist effusively in my best French. When I get to the hotel, P is there to greet me and said that they had a fabulous time on their bus – they all decided if they wanted to be buried or cremated and asked the driver to go round again as they were having such a laugh!!!

After that, it’s time to pick up skis and boots, whereupon I spy a fellow passenger from my transfer bus – and decide that he is definitely going to want a conversation with me.

It turns out that the International Man of Mystery (IMM) is an advanced skier, and so is my friend P. After a spot of light conversation, IMM thinks that he has got off lightly and strolls away with his kit. It is then that I spring into action. I leave P holding my flowery “clearly not very advanced” skis and midget length poles as I decree to IMM that he must ski with P one day, we’re all hilarious (honest) and what is he up to. IMM, in the manner of a marmot caught in the headlights of a snow plough, agrees to meet us all later (after letting slip that he usually skis off-piste, actually, and he’s hired a guide); and I am thrilled because I am obviously the self-styled Cilla Black of the slopes in terms of matching up ski buddies – and it’s only 5.30 pm French time.

The next day is my birthday and it’s eight years to the day since I started skiing. It also dawns on me then that it might have been a good idea to try on my stuff on before leaving Jersey after all, because the sad truth is that I can’t quite get my trousers to do up and this is somewhat inhibiting when getting dressed in front of one of your friends. Still, I’m sure that other skiers will love the sight of me going by – giving them a daring glimpse of my pale blue thermals if they’re lucky.

Day two is harder. Despite new trousers, (If you think shopping for jeans is bad, try looking for ski trousers with your friends standing guard outside while you get warmer and ever more panicky) it’s just not my day. I manage one run with our instructor (poor Kev, his reward will be in heaven) and then have to call it a day before I stumble miserably back to the Marmotte and sleep for five hours. I also fall over in front of a kindly British man whilst getting out of his way. He offers me a hand up, which I accept after checking that he’s strong. Hopefully, his back’s ok now. Still, I comfort myself by finding a Carrefour and bulk buying Chipsters, possibly the best crisps in the world.

On day three I decide it will be marvelous to not ski at all and go up the mountain to read my book instead. Looking round the deckchairs, I see that three other women have all got the same idea – and if I hadn’t been reading, I wouldn’t have got to witness the surreal sight and sound of pipers on the mountain, either. I send a whiney message to one of my friends, saying that everything hurts. The tough love comes back. “Pain is a state of mind,” they say (I worry that they may have been reading mindfulness books). “Get back on that mountain.”

On day four, I crack it. It’s fabulous, I’m over the moon and my friends are brilliant as we laugh our way down the mountain, or at least the bit of it I can do – (they didn’t have to stay with me, and they did), – and everyone gets out of our way because they can hear us singing.

We end our trip in an airport lounge in Geneva, being impressed by a fellow traveller who is already on the fizz at 8.00am – and agreeing that Les Gets 2016 was indeed the (very) best of times.

So thank you to J, P and H for your patience, personal shopping qualities and for putting up with me on the chair lifts – same time next year?