Right then, a couple of weeks ago, I let rip about skiing. Not a little comment at the end of a piece about something else, not a sly put-down masked in a sentence about high heels, not even a small paragraph saying it wasn’t my bag. I mean, I spent the whole page, all the words, saying that skiing was for losers.
Many of you wrote in, my Twitter page exploded and friends I’ve had since childhood deleted me from their Sim cards. My parents tutted (not that they’ve ever been, but they did point out that they liked hot cheese and thought I should keep my holiday ideas to myself), and my husband had to pretend he was married to a different Claudia Winkleman when he went in to work the following Monday. “I hope your wife isn’t the one who thinks only tools throw themselves down mountains,” said one (who, incidentally, was wearing a Puffa jacket). “No, no,” my husband explained shiftily. “I’m married to someone who adores skiing, she can’t get enough of it. In fact, she’s asked for a pair of salopettes for Christmas and we’re renaming the kids Klosters, Verbier and Méribel. Yippee.”
“My main gripe is the stuff: the kit, the cumbersome outfits, the heavy boots, the depressing damp accessories
So, I’m back to put things right, to make amends, to say sorry (ish) and to have another chat about snowy peaks. My main gripe is the stuff: the kit, the cumbersome outfits, the heavy boots, the depressing damp accessories, the puddles on the floor, the outfits (I mean, who needs an extra 4in across every surface of their body right after Christmas?), the strange sticks of green or white face paint (sunblock apparently — who knew?). And the whole necking of shots every time anyone orders a rösti.
I have since done some research, and it turns out it’s not all quite so gloomy, not quite so medieval. Friends go and actually don’t get slaughtered before 3pm. They make snow angels with their kids, who aren’t just passed over to hungover instructors, and they eat salad (I think this might be an exaggeration). They say après-ski is not just loafing around snacking on rabbit ravioli before throwing themselves into a hot tub screaming about powder (insert line here, as it were).
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The main upside, plus point and whole vibe is the view. “Look, you might like Christmas in your house, with your reindeer antlers and baking equipment, but you look out the window and still see the same street. Yes, it will be rainy and sludgy, but it is not a mountain with sparkly Christmas-snow-covered trees.” They have a point. I like a view, I can get excited about a vista. I once went to Portofino, in Italy, and almost fainted. I swear I could just look at that view for 15 years straight and never get bored. I believe we collect views, like small discs in our head, and we can recall them at any time (useful during rush hour on the Tube) — sunset in Madrid, a beach view from a honeymoon balcony (it’s probably worth saying we could only see the sea if we crushed our faces into one side of the closet and used a wing mirror, but still), and rolling fields from an amazing, perfect sunny afternoon in the Lake District. So I guess skiing would certainly add another to the filing cabinet — fir trees and snowy mountains and an oversized sun.
But wait, look. It’s like Stella McCartney is actually reading my mind (to be honest, she’s done this before, see the cat top, the Bryce coat and the swan ruffled sweater). She has created a new range of clutch and cross-body bags. They have all the cool of the Falabella, but are much more structured. They are box bags and this one has a snow scene on it. I mean, wowzers, this is perfect. I can have a beautiful, crisp winter view, I can take it all in — fluttery snow-covered trees and beautiful inspiring mountains. But just, ahem, in London. Turns out skiing is my bag, as in, um, an actual bag.
