When I was in the my third year of high school, there was a school trip announced to take us to the French Alps for skiing. Naturally, I knew I had to sign up. Funnily enough, it seemed like fate was against me on that regard. The school had weekly meet ups to head up to the skiing resort outside Edinburgh for practise and yet, after missing the first two, the teachers refused to take me to the others. So, my Dad had to take me. This is how he broken his thumb… long story.

The first day of Tignes, (look it up, it’s beautiful) we all settled into our hotel rooms; girls on one floor, boys on the other. It was simple. We would spend the first night just getting used to the place, getting our ski things sorted and that would be easy! Only it wasn’t.

One of my friends, whom I’ll refer to as J, decided he needed the top bunk of his room, and fair enough. He swung his suitcase up onto the top bunk of the three bed room, and- shattered the lightbulb of the room. And that pretty much set the tone.

Day two. Skiing. Everyone was excited. Nervous, but excited. Everyone lined up to be take out to the slopes and I – despite my studious efforts – was sent to the beginner/nursery slopes. This was a good decision I feel, as I cried all the way down it. They refused to give us poles at first, so I was essentially headbutting my way down a slope with only my legs to steer, and my face as brakes if I couldn’t slow down. So…. yes. Great fun!

The only way it could get worse was if – oh, wait yup. Yellow food. Stale chicken nuggets that I couldn’t eat, and chips drier than a carpet. Thanks. Hmm, that might have been the resturant trying to cater to British school children, but that’s probably how I lost 14lbs that week.

Day Three. We were allowed our poles, and we joined up with one of the other groups and J. twisted his ankle. Well, okay, no, he bruised it. This was halfway down a mountain after me and my friend I, crashed into the sky instructor. Due to the complete uselessness of us, and my fear of sliding down mountains on wedges of wood in thick blizzards, we forgot all about J. and met him three hours later, him having walked sideways down the mountain. It gets better. Turns out, he and my other friend, S, fell out with their other roommate B. and had to break down the door of their room that night. So, that happened.

At around 5pm that night, everyone was off “I know not where.” (I have a bad perception of time and it turns out they were at dinner)  while I read in the room. All of a sudden, I had a sensation that something was “wrong.” I looked up from my book and watched as a small trickle of a puddle ebbed through under the room door like something from a goosebumps episode. I had no words. After a few seconds of watching, I scurried to the bathroom and made a barricade of towels. Once it looked like it was holding, I set about, hunting for the source – or someone whom I could complain to. I found everyone down in the lunch hall, only, as I arrived, a large chunk of foam tiles fell through the ceiling into someone’s plate with a wet slop and I fear my message may have arrived too late.

Trying no to snicker, I explained that the room were flooding and everyone ran off to their rooms to panick tidy and sort out their things. Except me. I picked at food and told my friends A and L. that our room was safe.

Also, turns out M. on the third floor had been upset by damage to some of her things, so S. shimmied up the balconies to find her. Apparently someone told the teachers as the girls all had room searches to find the “missing students”.

The students weren’t the only ones shimmying around balconies, but we’ll get to that in a minute.

Day Four. Ah Day Four. One of the best. My friend A woke with a crick in her neck and we told the gym teacher this. She told us we were slacking and we should just get on with it. Now, me and A were notorious for forgetting our gym kit, and I can understand why she said it, but… she should have listened. After all, it took two of us to help her sit up.

Flash forward to 11am. My group are going down a halfpipe. The trick to a halfpipe is to slide up one side, turn and use the momentum to make slow but sharp zigzags down the slope. It is daunting, but it’s much safer to do that than slide right down. Especially when their is a what? 80, 120 foot drop at the bottom? More? I’m not sure how far it was, but the turn was sharp enough to make me flinch.

Halfway down the slope, I hear a noise akin to a pterodactyl in heat and turn just in time to see a whirr of black salopettes come tear-arsing (technical term) down this halfpipe and swing the sharpest left in the history of sharp-arse turns. There is only one human being on the planet, – I realise – who can take a turn like that. A.

A few years before, me and A. went gocarting, I remember. When we were getting set up, the guy told us, “don’t put your foot on the pedal yet”. So, when he set up A.’s go-kart…

BANG. I swear time stood still. The cry of the guy as he chased after her.

“Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.”

The screech of tires.

The brick fucking wall and A. slooooow-ly about to meet and nothing away could do  to – WHOOOOOOOSHH!!! An invisible hand came out of nowhere and yanked A. around this fucking corner and snatching her away from the jaws of death and concussion like nothing on the planet. I sat there, gaping, from my go-kart. My mum has it on video camera. Well; she has two seconds of revving and then the picture goes sideways as the momentum knocks the video-camera all from her hands. Then me fucking  laughing because A. has avoided death. Somehow.

So there was no doubt in mind who the idiot was that had carreened down the mountain like Thelma and Louise did in the movie of the same name.

Twenty minutes later, we found her. Completely vertical at the bottom of the fucking mountain. Dead.

Okay. no. Not dead. Mostly shouting.

“HELP. I CAN’T MOVE MY NECK!”

Well, didn’t I just about wet myself laughing. The teacher’s panicked. “Oh no, she’s broke her neck.” And – trying not to wet myself- I explain. “She cricked her neck this morning, we told you this.”

Regardless – and this is the funniest thing I’ve seen in my short life – while the group watched, A. was carted down the mountain in a ski ambulance. This is basically a  tobbogan with an engine and a motherfucking body bag on skis. I nearly died too.

It would be five hours before anyone saw A. again. She had been to hospital, and now sported a lovely azure neckbrace. Her neck would not see sunlight for two weeks.

So, later, chilling in the hotel bar, I spy the barman hobbling around with a cast on one foor and a crutch in one hand and I blink. There must be something in the air, I decide. So, as I order myself a diet coke, I ask him what happened. Perhaps he spent too much time with A…

Alas, no. It turns out Mr Barman, had decided to go for a leisurely walk on the balcony. And the door locked behind him. So he thinks, Oh well, fuck it, and climbs down. Only to fall and slip in the PLETHORA OF ICE SURROUNDING, I DON’T KNOW… EVERYTHING?????  And voila! Broken leg.

So, in conclussion; don’t go skiing. Don’t go skiing with teenagers. Don’t go skiing with friends. Just don’t go anywhere with skiing. Don’t do it.