The sport gene, because obviously such a thing totally exists, has always been absent in the Bowlface pool. My greatest achievement was making it into the top group for hockey at school, and that was solely because my violent wielding of the sticks could only be dealt with by the sporty girls. This alone has had me marked as 'the sporty one' in the family - pretty much representative of our sporting prowess.
Therefore, the notion of a mass family venture to the Dolomites for skiing purposes needed to be seen to be believed. Whilst other chalet guests were arriving with reflective visor helmets, all-in-one jumpsuits (actually, never advisable on a skier of any skill) and their own, foot-moulded boots; we happily got on with wobbling around in the hire shop.
First morning, kitted up and almost looking convincing, we headed down to the ski school to join a load of tiny children and Daniella, our Italian instructor. Considering he had probably once been a 'bucket baby', mewing happily by snow ramps from infancy and parallel-turning down the slopes from the age of two and a half, his patience with us was remarkable. Not least as I sped backwards down the slope, arse out, and landed head first in a pile of snow, a la Bridget Jones, instantly after clicking into my skis.
As the morning went on I almost recovered my dignity as Daniella taught us the 'bars-ick position' and how to turn towards the 'vall-ay'.
By the afternoon Bro and I had made our way up to the blue run, down which my arse also had a large amount of contact with the snow. In between avoiding poles to the face, wrestling with ski lifts, skis flying down slopes of their own accord and counting leg bruises, like a seven year old in the bath, we'd managed to tackle the slopes with a kind of graceless ability by midweek.
Bombardino (hot alcoholic custard with cream on top)-induced or otherwise, I'm hooked. Skiing, 1, Bowlface anti-sport gene, nil.