They call it ‘winter sports’. And for good reason. Mainly because they happen in the winter time. When the weather’s a bit funny, a bit unpredictable, when the Thames Valley floods, when England gets submerged, when its cold and in particular, because it snows. The irony being that without this snow, you can’t do winter sports. So the ideal is that it buckets down for about 4 weeks solid, laying down a good 4 metres of wonderful snow onto the mountains, then when you arrive for your 4 days, the sun comes out and the sky is dazzlingly clear and you put on your suncream and you can see for 200 miles in every direction and, most importantly, you eat your lunch outside under the bluest sky you could ever dream of.

And for 3 days, that’s what we had. We lived the dream. We were the chosen people. We had all the snow we could wish for, we had sun, we had bikini-clad babes on the beach, we had sunbeds, cocktails by the pool and Spurs went top of the league. It was that good.

This morning looked the same. Sunny, clear, gorgeous as we headed up the mountain for our last day’s ski. By the time we reached the top it was a bit cloudy. Then the cloud came down to join us on the mountainside and brought some snow with it. Let’s have a frikkin party. Then the visibility went. Or I’d gone blind. Same result. Couldn’t see the edge of the pistes, couldn’t see the middle of the pistes, couldn’t see the skis on your feet. Nuffink. White out. Stuck up a steep mountainside which is covered in lumpy bumpy snow, in the middle of nowhere and you can’t see your hand in front of your face. No problem.

Its winter!!! It fucking snows!!!! That’s what you pay for. You can hardly complain. Well, you can, but to whom?

And then you realise its just fun. Silly fun, but enjoyable. Then you come into a little bit of clarity and you can ski normally, fast and furiously and the snow’s falling hard and fast and hits you at about the same 20 miles an hour that you’re skiing. And its exhilarating and immensely enjoyable and… and… and wintery.

Unlike Geneva airport where I’m currently sitting, which is cold, but more in the metaphorical sense, and sterile, in any sense, and full of the most expensive stuff anywhere on earth, which makes no sense. 2 quid for a little bottle of water? £8 for a bar of chocolate, $5,345 for a Burberry handbag.

I’m coming home.

Happy wednesday, unless you’re David Moyes.

A xxxx