Taking on Applejack.

Arguably, when the closest one's Friday night gets to a club involves driving home to Annie Mac Presents, Saturday morning lie-ins are unjustifiable. Especially for a morning person. Despite this, going for a run at 8.25 during one is still pretty ungodly.

After a couple of glasses of wine the previous evening (consumed post-work, alongside a family meal and 'civilised' conversation. WILD), I agreed, nay, was coerced, into going for a jog the next morning avec newly-fitness-fanatic sister. As regular readers may know, I've not been adverse to an early run across the acres of field that comprise the Shire, and so, despite not having done any exercise for two months, this seemed like a great way to squidge in some sibling quality time in a weekend otherwise lost to H.E.R.S (high-end retail slavery, get with it). Or so I was told.

The thing is, I should always have been suspicious. VINCENTS DON'T DO SPORT. As recent nostalgic 'accidental' replaying of home videos from the early nineties has demonstrated, we're missing that from both gene pools. Granted, we're not overweight nor lazy; enjoy a walk and some hands-on gardening. However, P.E and Games were never timetable highlights, the fact that Dad couldn't join in the Dad's Race at primary school sports day due to 9-5 commitments never massively grieved us - we weren't blind to the comparable size of the rugby team fathers - and I, one-time team member of the Rounders 'B' Team in year 9 and a fourth member of the winning relay team due to peer pressure alone, am considered 'the sporty one'. As a bored child I much rather had crayons than quoits, to the extent my mother threatened moving 'to a flat with no garden if you don't go and play in it'. No thankyou, sport, we do vintage motor cars and baking, a healthy equilibrium considering the slight of arse necessary to fit into the former.

Therefore the announcement that female sibling Bowlface had a) decided to run 10K, and b) for a sense of self-achievement, a celebration of youth and well-being and, even more shockingly, c) NON-CHARITABLE FUN, shook us as a family unit somewhat. The lack of sponsorship has been a point hotly and repeatedly justified by her over the weekend, especially considering that Mummy B confessed to 'telling everyone [she] was doing it for Cancer Research'.


I woke up at 8.03 on Saturday morning, sleepily surmised that sister B would be pouncing into my room at any second and that, like my five year-old self trying to avoid a smack, hiding under the duvet would make it all go away. Eight minutes later my room was indeed invaded by Sister B dressed head to toe in overpriced, 'scientifically-personalised' lycra garb from some kind of Clapham-specific running shop. Reader, my resistance was short-lived and futile. At 8.16 I joined her, (in freebie scene-mag teeshirt and grubby mum trainers) analogising that whilst she resembled (My Little Pony) Applejack from our childhood toybox in temperament and appearance, I was feeling like 'Claude', the peculiarly chunky mauve plastic nag from a French supermarket.

Don't underestimate that doe-eyed expression. 'Claude', not unsurprisingly, does not have a Google images entry.

This proved true for the entire 30 minutes and 2.5 miles of tomato-faced 'sibling quality time'. I do believe the words 'go on without me', were muttered at one point. I had turned into the Billy Pilgrim of a Shire-based Slaughterhouse Five, complete with her disbelieving my sheep theories. Never again.  

Bowlface Poleface

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.