Yes, its official…, I have been called a large black pom pom, by a Frenchman, not in malice, in fact quite the reverse. Sliding down the piste clutching perilously onto the belief that I have any sort of control, out from the woods appears one of the mountain rescue team pulling a stretcher-sledge. A brief glance confirmed the sledge was empty and nodding at him I enquired if I could ‘cadge a lift!’ The man had one of those fabulously gnarled weather beaten faces that ooze with character: unlike mine where after a day’s skiing I can stop the traffic when back in town (no it has absolutely nothing to do with the occasional beer on the slopes; I just have a ruddy complexion).
His broad smile made his teeth gleam and that was when he nodded back to me acknowledging my headwear. I know he skied off at break-neck speed thinking that only an Englishman would wear such an apparition… well he’s wrong. What our mountain friend failed to realise was “grand pom pom noir” is a navigational beacon. Female old git has skied this area for nearly 5 weeks plus a further 2 weeks last year. She must have missed the queue for the navigation gene or, more likely; she grabbed a pair of jeans instead. There is however one exception and that is when her intuition tells her that a toilet is in the vicinity; she can be absolutely on the mark then… I once took off the said head garment, when it was hot, and she sailed right past me anxiously scanning the piste below for her “grand pom pom noir” like a lookout desperately searching for a lighthouse in a Force 10. So I may look like a complete jerk but it is all for a good cause…
His broad smile made his teeth gleam and that was when he nodded back to me acknowledging my headwear. I know he skied off at break-neck speed thinking that only an Englishman would wear such an apparition… well he’s wrong. What our mountain friend failed to realise was “grand pom pom noir” is a navigational beacon. Female old git has skied this area for nearly 5 weeks plus a further 2 weeks last year. She must have missed the queue for the navigation gene or, more likely; she grabbed a pair of jeans instead. There is however one exception and that is when her intuition tells her that a toilet is in the vicinity; she can be absolutely on the mark then… I once took off the said head garment, when it was hot, and she sailed right past me anxiously scanning the piste below for her “grand pom pom noir” like a lookout desperately searching for a lighthouse in a Force 10. So I may look like a complete jerk but it is all for a good cause…
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