This is an example of Frederlandish, a new language I've been developing based on my confusion between Dutch, English and French. My rusty school French seems to have merged with my woefully inadequate Dutch to create a horrible linguistic mess. However, it hasn't stopped me from undertaking an epic (OK, perhaps not epic) single handed journey to and from the Alps without the aid of a phrase book.
The outward journey last Saturday involved dragging myself to Schiphol after three hours sleep (I was having far too much fun at my work's Christmas party to leave before the early hours of Friday night). I did make check-in, however, and boarded the tiny 45 seater plane, which (inexplicably) smelled of cheese, bound for Lyon. The passenger next to me had cabin baggage that mieowed throughout the flight. Since when has it become normal to fly with your pets? Perhaps I should have taken Yoda and Koe with me for a bit of an Alpine adventure?
We landed in the French sunshine and I stopped briefly in the airport to do a quick 'I need some non-drowsy cough medicine please' mime for the french pharmacist (luckily I'm good at charades and didn't end up with haemorrhoid cream) then continued my journey via train then eventually coach into the winding mountain roads that lead to La Plagne. It was great to be welcomed into our cosy apartment by my mum, sister and her fiance Neil.
That night the snow started to fall in big fat flakes and didn't stop for the first couple of days. A bit of lovely fresh powder was just what I needed to take my mind off the state of my health. I was rapidly becoming a mucus monster - a nasty chest and sinus infection wasn't my idea of fun in -22 degree temperatures. Luckily I managed to ski for most of the time and by Christmas Day the tide of mucus was retreating and my skiing was improving!
Christmas in a ski resort is fun! On Christmas Eve we all wrapped up warm and went down to the village to watch a torchlit descent by the ski instructors and to drink vin chaud and hot chocolate in the snow. Our 'in house' chefs (Claire and Neil) then provided a great feast of lamb, champagne and Bilberry tart.
In the early hours of Christmas morning I was woken up by lots of rustling and giggling by my bedside. This was coming from Pere Noel (a.k.a my sister) delivering goodies. Me and mum shared a room and when we asked what was going on she said 'shut up and go to sleep... I'm Pere Noel... I would have been quieter but your snoring was making me laugh'.
My mum was fast becoming a cool snow-babe, despite the fact that she hadn't skied for 35 years. With the help of her instructor Reno (or is it Renault like the cars?!) she was bombing down the slopes with the best of 'em. Me and Claire decided that our ski-personas should be 'snow baboons' and had hours of fun doing downhill primate impressions. The excessive consumption of all manner of lovely French food meant that I could shus (a prize to anyone who can spell that correctly for me) faster down a mountain than a medium sized elephant.
On the last day of skiing I hired a pair of snow blades and had a great day whizzing around on those - I'm a total convert! Apart from nearly falling off the edge of a mountain, I have returned with all limbs intact, an unused insurance policy and a smile on my face.
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