Reflections in the snow
Skiing, for me, was like Vimto Bon Bons. I used to love Vimto Bon Bons. I can’t recall a more exciting and fulfilling taste sensation than the first time I popped one of the addictive little sweets into my mouth, trusting the enthusiastic recommendation of my kids. The second didn’t have quite the same impact, but was still a tasty treat. By the end of the packet I was still popping the Vimtos at an unhealthy rate but now the pleasure had turned to pain. A pain I was pushing through boldly despite having lost any sense of enjoyment. So it was with skiing. As a younger man I utterly loved the sport. I ticked off reds and blacks with a fearless hunger and sought out any opportunity or excuse for a trip to the Alps. Skiing was a part of me; right up until the point I took a big fall. In a silly moment of catching an edge, I hit the ground hard. Not enough to do permanent physical damage but hard enough to knock any passion for skiing out of my heart. Skiing and I said...