Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been asleep while the world has passed me by at breakneck speed.
I’ve been contemplating how, romantically and tastefully, to celebrate Valentine’s Day on Monday while also pondering how I’ve missed previously encountering the torrent of terminology beaming into our living rooms this week.
I’d never before heard of “big air”, or “halfpipe” or “slopestyle”. For me, big air was something to do with singer Beyonce’s coiffure on a bad day, halfpipe was the challenge facing my Grandpa when his baccy pouch was running low and slopestyle was trendy gear for a hillwalking holiday.
I had heard of “moguls” although I thought they were oil-industry tycoons living in mansions in Cults. Now I’m considerably better informed thanks to the heroic efforts of Aberdeen-based teenage freestyle skier, Kirsty Muir, at the Winter Olympics where she landed a fantastic fifth place in the “big air” final.
It’s a scary discipline that seems to combine ski-jumping with repeated attempts to imitate an aerobatic helicopter, all while standing sideways with feet clamped to a pair of sturdy fence posts.
On her final run, Kirsty attempted a fiendishly hard “switch misty 10” jump. I actually completed a similar manoeuvre on skis at Cairngorm some years ago, although mine wouldn’t have impressed any watching judges. My icy gymnastics were down to naked lust. Not literally – it was much too cold for that – but my pursuit of a beautiful, stylish skier with whom I was seriously smitten.
I was determined to pursue her on to the slopes even although, as a native Highlander, she’d been raised on the mountains while as a coastal lowlander my only previous downhill experience was simulating a real snowplough after failing to negotiate a slippery snowy slope in leather-soled shoes.
No marks for style but top dollar for distance.
I eventually secured a date with the object of my intended affections but only by suggesting I’d love to accompany her on a Saturday skiing trip to Cairngorm, tactically omitting that I was a terrified novice.
I reached the top of the mountain incident-free but coming down was different. As she swooshed and swished her way gracefully down ahead of me, I pointed downwards, adopting the uncomfortable pose of someone who has just suffered an involuntary bowel movement.
I did “bend zee knees” but, at ever-increasing speed, hit a snow-covered bump – a mogul, according to those who know about such things – and my resultant aerial “switch misty 10” saw me face-planting a deep drift.
I hope it wasn’t love at first sight for her, given the backside-up view I presented, but she obviously saw the best of me as we were married a few years later. We still are, and she’s just as gorgeous.
Incidentally, have you noticed that Deena Tissera, involved in a Labour Party row over candidates for May’s council elections in Aberdeen, is widely referred to as “former beauty queen and public health PhD student”? Beauty first, impressive academic CV second.
It’s a sad indictment on the way our women are portrayed in society. Surely it should be highly-qualified woman first, then former beauty queen as a largely irrelevant afterthought?
But one woman, apart from Mrs F, who is both qualified and talented, and still beautiful, is the Queen. Seventy years on from her accession to the throne, she is amazing. Such a shame, then, that a TV news report on that momentous anniversary chose to suggest that she’s looking frailer than previously.
A completely unnecessary comment. She’s nearly 96, works daily and always looks wonderful, which is more than can be said for some churlish royal correspondents. You get my drift, Mr Witchell?
I’m not sure I’ll live to be 96, especially if I ever put on skis again. My next unplanned switch misty 10 would likely be my last.
Ah well, onwards and downwards. For now, it’s back to considering Monday and how to make Mrs F’s day. Maybe I’ll arrange for her to get big air, some slopestyle or new cosmetics. No, probably not. Such sexist predictability risks turning Valentine’s Day mascara into a Valentine’s Day massacre. Maybe I’ll take her skiing instead.
So, if I’m missing next week you’ll know why.
