"These, dude," said Paul the Australian ski instructor, "Are your snow-boarder kebab sticks. Use them wisely, man"
They looked like ski-poles to me, but Paul was the expert and I wasn't about to argue with him. Even if he'd affected a broad Californian accept for the benefit of his employers.
I felt he was perhaps being a little harsh on snow-boarders - the nature of their craft means they spend large amounts of time either on their posteriors or face down in the snow. Threatening to spear the poor devils with a ski pole as well as all that seemed a tad excessive. Some of my best friends are, after all, snow-boarders. That said, some of them would probably enjoy the insertion of an angry ski-pole.
So, my principle feeling towards snow-boarders was one of equanimity. Live and let live. And so on.
Until today.
Today I attempted to get from the top to the bottom of the mountain. All on relatively easy green runs. I was within sight of the village. It was spread out below me, belying the description "village". A few more turns and I would be there. Triumphant.
It was not be. I heard a shout behind me and the whole world turned blue and white. It appeared that high above me, a snow-boarder had lost his board, which was careening down the slope, out of control (skis have stoppers to prevent this happening when detached from the boot.) As I blearily sat up I could see the orphaned board making its evil progress to the village, taking out three children, two adults and causing general mayhem.
"Snow-boarder kebab sticks" Hmmm... Maybe just the one. Perhaps two...
Oh, and the photo? A charming waitress from The Keg who liked the bear. The waiter pretended not to see it.
