I peered doubtfully at the sliver of plastic. I wanted to ask "But is it safe?" What I actually asked was "When do I get to use it?"
Things had not gone entirely according to plan. I'd intended to arrive, ski, drink too much and then fall asleep. What had actually happened was I spent a quality 2 hours in the tender care of EasyJet intermittently dozing or drooling on the shoulder of my neighbour for which I was rewarded at Geneva by a security alert. I'm sure my neighbour arranged it as an act of vengence.
While the police literally wrapped the airport in red and white tape (I guess the Swiss police don't have a lot to do and so enthusiastically grabbed the opportunity to use up some of their police stuff. I awaited the arrival of the tanks and helicopters with interest) I pondered my next move.
The pretty girl who'd met me at the airport (I seem to be making an agreeable habit of being met at airports by pretty girls) bought me a beer while we waited for the alert to finish.
You coud almost taste the disappointment of the police when the suspect bag turned out to contain something mundane. Doubtless some clogs or a cuckoo clock bought by a tourist who'd had an attack of good taste and left the hateful things behind.
However, this meant that I wouldn't have time for skiing. But the owner of the chalet had a better idea. A much better idea. 'Bum Boarding' which, while sounding like a S&M fetish, is actually a variation on tobaggoning. Except on something that resembled a frisbee with a handle.
It is possibly the most fun I've had with my clothes on. 10 of us hurtled down the piste, whooping like demented monkeys while the other owner of the chalet followed us down on skis, shouting encouragement and videotaping the inevitable wipeouts. Natually, I won. Body mass will out...
I have more, but I can hear the clarion call of an evening beer. There are still today's adventures to write about.
The bear says Hi.
