Gloves Off

"My ski gloves are older than Malcolm," I declare.  

Malcolm is one of the teachers running the school ski trip. He is twenty-eight. My gloves are twenty-nine and still white(ish).  They still work too.

The school ski trip comprises 32 children and nine adults.  I have been clear throughout the planning of it, that I am not here to look after children, and all promises have been kept to, rigorously.  I have nothing to do but be told when and where to go.  No decisions to make. No responsibility. I don't care what the weather's like, what the hotel's like, what the skiing's like.  It is just heaven being able to relax for a week.  Even though it feels odd that there's been no break between attending the school music competition, swimming at the unhealthyclub, finding a home for Twiglet, coach, plane, coach, hotel, ski-hire place and revolting supper in the very basic hotel's very basic dining room somewhere in Italy, surrounded by eight year olds who've also been up and at it for 48 hours. I've rarely been happier.