Run December 13, 2007Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
The Russian and I are running away to the mountains with nothing but a suitcaseful of bordering-on-the-defunct bank-cards between us. I’ve never had a good idea in my life but I’m brilliant at bad ones and dashing off to places when you’re otherwise struggling to keep the wolf from the door might just be my best bad idea yet.
I’ve got a feeling I hate mountains. I haven’t got the shoes for them and all they do is provide ravines and canyons and any number of fissures for folk to fall down and die. And the Russian will deliberately do things like go out for a walk wearing nothing but a singlet at 4 one morning just to make me worry that he’s dead. All he ever does is disappear when we’re in places. Only to reappear alively at some later point. Which is a relief.
I’m sure I hate mountains.
Our trip to the mountains will involve trains. If I try to be normal, I think this might provide a moment of beauty. Training it through the mountains. Imagine. But then the only thing trains through the mountains ever do, presumably, is fall off their tracks and down ravines and canyons and any number of crevices with enormous loss of life. Though maybe I’ll be exempt from death for wearing the wrong shoes. You never know what mood fate might be in.
I’m convinced I detest mountains.
It appears the accommodation we’ll be in will have an element of the communal about it. Not shared bedrooms, which I wouldn’t majorly give a toss about, really, though I wouldn’t sleep a wink for fear of snoring my co-nappers to distraction, but some of the leisure facilities. A pool, allegedly. For us and others. Maybe even a sauna. And a gymmy bit. I could do with making use of those, but they’re bound to be overrun with people from genetically unpink and perfect nations who’ll swim like mermaids, pump iron like Arnie and sweat neatly down their genetically superior bodies while I thrash about like a hippo, break my arm opening the gymmy-bit door and wheeze the wheeze of the dying in the sauna.
I’m convinced I loathe the communal.
“I’ll give you skiing tips depending on the snow reports I get,” came the advice of the person extremely kindly making the accommodation in the death-trap mountains available to us. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be doing any skiing,” I answered feebly. “But might you say if there are restaurants and bars to speak of?” “Nonsense, you must have a go on at least the baby slopes,” which maybe I’d better to justify the largesse. But won’t that cost money? “There’s a restaurant you can eat in without taking your skis off.” Skis? If I cut some old plastic tubing in half, that might do the trick. Hair-clips should do to attach them to my inappropriate footwear.
I think I hate sport.
Still, important to get into the festive spirit.
I think I hate winter.