Forgive me for abandoning all hope of ever being able to decipher how your special powers of diarising work exactly, when no matter how meticulously I plan ahead you always seem to appear slap bang in the middle of my hard-earned two weeks of holiday.
I begrudgingly give you ten out of ten for accuracy once again this year.
Admittedly, having you join me on this skiing holiday isn’t as bad as when we were on our beach holiday last year, when already humiliated by having to wear swimmers in front of a posse of gorgeous teenage girls, I had to deal with you too.
But wearing twenty-five layers of warm clothing and thick gloves isn’t much easier and can be plain cumbersome when attending to your intimate needs en piste. And there is very little sympathy from ‘Da Boyz’ when we have to search for a toilet every hour in the middle of the mountains. There are only so many Hot Chocolates even they can drink! And why does the ladies room always seems to be located in the deepest, darkest cavern of the mountain when walking in ski boots for any length of time is an extra torture sent down by God when periods, childbirth and men weren’t enough, to test the inner strength of womenkind?
Added to which ‘Da Boyz’ have already consumed all the Neurofen for pathetic and whimsical boy ailments such as muscle strain and mountain flu, (the symptoms of which seem very similar to that of the common après-ski hangover, although they deny it profusely).
Cabin Fever certainly becomes all the more apparent in a real cabin with the combination of hormonal teenagers, ADHD, no Foxtel, tired limbs, those kids next door (who must live permanently on sugar) and your company.
So frankly, I wish you’d stayed at home. You know that this is one of those special weeks in the year, like Christmas and our birthdays, which the old man and I set aside for some catch-up intimacy, when we leave the excuses of hair washing, stress and tiredness at home. So I guess I should thank you for that ‘out’ you provided me with, although if truth be told I was quite excited at the prospect of having a laugh in the sack at my husband’s expense this year, in spite of the fear of Kurt wandering in at every opportunity and shouting ‘FUCKING GROSS’.
Remind me of your exact purpose in my life these days again, other than to fuck over my holidays?