We sat, swinging on the chairlift. The ground was an awfully long way down and doubtless littered with the bones of overly enthusiastic skiiers beneath the snow cover. While whatever moron had dropped off the start or the end of the lift was being scraped off the snow, my companion and I made conversation.
"So what are you doing when you get home tonight?" Had this come from a female companion, the conversation could have gone an entirely different way. In this case, I told the truth:
"I've got a date"
"Another one?"
"Yes"
"First time?"
I racked my brains "Ah... no... second time, I think"
S shook his head, making the chair rock alarmingly: "You need another hobby, mate. A sport."
"I could take up drinking again?" I volunteered
We thought about this for a while, before S finally came up with "How about knitting"
"'s hardly a sport..." I said, and added, "...although now I come to think about it, my grandmother's a bit of a demon with the knitting needles..."
There then ensued a discussion on the possibility of admitted knitting as an olympic discipline. Heck, if the Americans can get things as silly as basketball and beach volleyball in, then there'd be something peculiarly English about awarding a gold medal to the person able to knit a sweater with arms of a matching length (bonus points for itchy wool and a pattern guaranteed to ensure it remains in the cupboard until it either is eaten by moths or the aged lady who knitted dies, whichever comes first.)
We were surrounded by spectacular scenery, less than 2 hours to go, and we were talking about knitting. Tch...
