Skiing is exercise for people who are inactive the other 51 weeks a year

From time to time, I fear being a bit of a killjoy in this column. Good old Victoria Melderw. I groan about the leaf blowers, I tell you that you should not be mistaken with rubber boots and that you should only have curtains, not shutters, at home. I’m not sure there’s anything in the world that I feel more bellicose against than skiing.

Is there a stupider sport? Golf is pretty silly and Finns like to carry their wife, but riding on a rickety lift that just might make you dizzy only so you can slide down a dangerously steep, icy slope with a pair of oversized knitting needles strapped to your feet? Doing this over and over, multiple times a day, only comforting a piece of melted cheese and a paracetamol-sized pickle for lunch? Come on, admit it, it’s really very stupid. And the boots! My God, those boots. These are not the right kind of boots at all. It would be more comfortable to force your toes into a pair of cinder blocks every morning.

There’s a ton of skiing going on right now, with the Winter Olympics having started and an Instagram full of people beaming from the top of a mountain. They look like they’re having a good time, but I don’t think they can be.

I first skied when I was 13. After teetering to the top of my mother’s slope in Val d’Isere on a drag lift (a hateful invention), I immediately tipped over to my grandmother, then a very elegant and chic 60-year-old who had skied beautifully all her life. She injured her hip in the fall and never slalomed again.

Things haven’t improved. I quit ski school after three days because while my class was progressing, I was not progressing. I hated falling, I hated the noise my knitting needles made when they slipped on a patch of ice, I hated the swelling of my stomach when the funicular went up and the French people around me, dressed like regulars on Sundays from skiing, rushing to the doors when they opened.

I hated three-year-olds walking past my legs, I hated the temperature, I hated taking half an hour to get undressed to pee, and another half hour to put all those diapers back on. And I really, really hated anyone who suggested “One more run before lunch?”

I’ve tried skiing two or three times since, and each time wondered if this would be the trip where I caught the bug. No.

The only positives are the views and the hot chocolate, and I can get both of those things at my local park, so I don’t see the point of spending £9bn on a ski pass and a lumpy chalet bed during one week. Especially when there is a high chance of tearing a ligament on the first day.

A certain member of my family has a theory that skiing is exercise for people who barely move the rest of the year; that they justify being idle toads for 51 weeks on the grounds that they’re rolling down a snowy hill for each other and won’t stop talking about it for the next 11 months. May be.

I also suspect that at this point in the calendar there are those of us who yearn for the hot holidays and the feel of the sun on our milky limbs, and there are the sick who want to go abroad in a even colder place, where they have to wear more clothes. I know in which camp I am. Don’t even get me started on the Cresta.

Relocation, relocation, relocation for jet set farts

Various expat friends are fleeing Hong Kong, tired of China’s quarantine rules and encroachment. Most of the time they return home to Britain or head to Singapore, but what to do with their belongings? According to a friend, containers cost five times what they cost a few years ago, and shipping pets is a headache. A few months ago he paid £4,000 to move his dog to London. Now demand is so high that others are struggling to find space for Fido on trade routes. Their cheapest and easiest solution was to team up and charter a private jet. According to the jet broker, they have also flown cats, birds and turtles. If you think it’s bad to sit next to a crying newborn, imagine nine o’clock next to a chattering parakeet.

Ooh, you really are giblets, but I like you

Are you a “carnisplorer”? I’ve never heard of this one before, but according to Waitrose meat buyer Oliver Chadwyck-Healey (and husband of Telegraph fashion maven Ginnie), the food chain is seeing greater demand for nuggets such as lamb’s liver and oxtail as

we become more creative cooks. “These adventurous carnisplorers embrace food from nose to tail,” says Oliver, adding that it’s a more sustainable way to eat. Unusual food labels like these always make me laugh. I first encountered “fruitarians” in Richard Curtis’s Notting Hill (“We believe fruits and vegetables have feelings, so we believe cooking is cruel”), and I launched a ” very irritating climatearian” in my latest novel, who only eats food that “does no harm” to the planet (although she drinks a lot of New Zealand wine). Carnisplorer can now be added to the list. Who’s up for a pig’s ear at my place?

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