I’d rather be skiing…

The Aiguille Percee. Photo by Flickr user Tudre

The Aiguille Percee. Photo by Flickr user Tudre

This morning I am supposed to be writing 5,000 words for the Greek academic journal Τετράδια Πολιτικής Επιστήμης, thanks to my old mucker Dr Costantinos Dikeos of the Democritus University of Thrace. I should point out that I’m writing this in English as the only words of Greek I know are hideously foul insults talk to me by the above-mentioned academic.

He assures me that the title of the journal translates to Political Science Notebooks, Though frankly, it could be Honey I Shrunk My Underpants and I wouldn’t know any better.

While I’m honoured to be asked to contribute, it’s snowing. There are distracting flakes of snow drifting past my window. They form a sheet of of whiteness on the pavement not unlike the entirely blank page where my 5,000 words of succinct analysis should sit.

The problem, you see, is l’Aiguille Percée, above Tignes. (Actually, as a village, I much prefer Vars, much further south. It’s smaller and the runs are less majestic but it’s much more French and less stowed out with Brits. And it’s cheaper. But in my imagination – and in my imagination only – budget is not a problem.)

Every time I see a snowflake my mind wanders very quickly to the top of the Palafour lift, with its clear view of the “pierced needle”. The sun is shining. There is no wind. I’m up early so the slope’s not too crowded. For once, I’m skiing with confidence, relaxed and bold.

When I should be referencing my sources using the Harvard Quoting System, I am mentally sweeping gently down the slopes to a ludicrously over-priced cafe for some vin chaud and maybe some tartiflette. Maybe after luncheon I will do the classic run down to Brevières, followed by a rewarding meal and lots of red wine, with perhaps a cheeky Calvados to follow.

That last bit is even more of a fantasy as I am currently in the throes of a Dryathlon for Cancer Research (please give generously).

No booze today. No winter sports. No French feasting. Just an academic journal, a looming deadline and the possibility of a trip to Glenshee at the weekend.

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