Carol’s Column

On the slippery slope to fame

I SKIED down the slope, the breeze ruffling my new punk haircut. Above, a snow-white cloud floated across the brilliant sky.

"I can hear yodelling," I said to my spouse who was skiing down the slope beside me.

"Rubbish, that's the dustbin men emptying the bins into the dump truck," he muttered as he executed a perfect snowplough and came to a halt.

Our dishy ski instructor with the cobalt blue eyes and curly eyelashes yelled, "Bend your knees and lean your body away from the slope. Out, out, lean out."

"Isn't this great?" said my husband.

"Mmm," I acquiesced, gazing at the ski instructor. This broke my concentration and caused me to fall on my backside with legs, skis and arms splayed untidily.

My spouse grinned lopsidedly in sympathy which in turn made his centre of gravity shift to his left cheek and he rolled over sideways.

It was 6 in the morning and the ski slope was so comfortable that I almost fell asleep on it but Mark, our instructor, pushed a button and the carpet started rolling.

All around, Craighall Park was beginning to awake.

You might wonder what we were doing skiing in Craighall Park at dawn. Well, for 20 years we have wanted to go on a skiing holiday but somehow it never happened. And then, a few months ago, while watching "Wielie Walie", my husband said: "Let's do it."

I got such a shock that I leapt out of my chair, sent my walking stick flying and immediately dashed upstairs and jumped into my black net see-through negligé with the feathered decollete.

"Good grief," said my husband when I flew into the lounge, "I meant let's go skiing."

Well, you can't win them all. I settled back on to the sofa and stretched my arthritic insteps.

So, in a rush of enthusiasm we cashed in all the insurances we could find, sold the house, car, dogs, cat and goldfish, rented out the kids, made cakes to sell at Zoo Lake over weekends, and booked for two weeks at Tignes in the French Alps.

"This will be a real family holiday," I twittered. "You, me, Barry, Ralph, Jamie and Nicky. It's the perfect time to go."

"Yes," said my husband. "The rand is dropping by the minute and the exchange rate is lousy and deteriorating, it's the perfect time to go."

My grandmother, the Turkish belly dancer from Stellenbosch, always told me to marry an optimist.

"You simply have to go to skiing classes otherwise you'll waste the first week learning how to fasten your skiboot," said my good friend Betty when I told her our holiday plans.

And that is why we found ourselves on the practice ski slope at the Springbok Ski Club.

In actuality, the slope is a moving carpet on which aspiring skiers come to grips with the art of skiing. When we arrived, there was another couple in striped outfits with natty red boots and matching gloves.

Together they skied from side to side, a picture of eloquent grace. "That could be us," I whispered to my husband.

"Never," he replied.

Our instructor took to the slope and demonstrated. Like boardsailing, singing and crocheting, skiing looks easier than it is.

"Relax and make your body the shape of a banana," said Mark. So I made like a banana and fearlessly sallied forth.

"Smile, smile," yelled Mark as I came whizzing down, my jaw, elbows and knees tensely clenched. "Skiing is fun, you don't have to become an Olympic skier in six lessons."

Why not? That was a challenge I couldn't resist. I bent my knees and leaned far out.

"Watch your centre of gravity," said Mark, "pretend the bottom half of your body is cast in cement and use your top half for direction."

Gracefully and naturally I skied down the carpeted slope into the pole on which the controls are mounted. The pole remained upright.

But there is more to skiing than slapping two thin sticks on your feet.

Take thighs. They have to be exercised until they are as strong as tree trunks and as supple as elastic bands, which is why I've been walking on bended knees for the past week.

And, even more important than the skiing is your outfit.

After paying for the trip we couldn't afford the ski gear.

"So, we'll Beau Brummel down the slopes," said my husband. He wasn't joking.

Personally I felt it was a little too chilly on the derriere so I asked around and discovered my friend Marion Hamberger owned a magnificent maroon and blue ski suit which she was only too willing to lend me. "Take it, take it," she said, "I never want to see it again."

I wore it to dinner last night because I thought it might be nice to get into the swing of things.

"What do you think?" I said as the chicken soup misted up my goggles.

"Ma, you look like a fat sausage squashed into a thin skin," said Nicky flatteringly.

I was unperturbed for I know that in the Olympics it's skill that counts, not looks.

"Just imagine the headlines," I said to the kids: "The skiing sausage wins the Silver."

"Why not the Gold, Ma?" said Jamie.

Well, one has to be realistic.

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