The Proposal Story: Chapter Two

Lost

After I’d said yes and managed to regain some composure, we started to make our way down the mountain. All of a loved up dither, I seemed to lose all capacity to ski. As well as feeling hugely distracted by the brilliance of the surprise, I was also challenged by the hazy visibility so I regressed to going at snail’s pace and resorted to my snow plough. Whenever The Husband To Be turned around to check I’d not broken myself, I’d switch to parallel turns, pick up the pace and try to look cool so that he didn’t think he’d just proposed to a complete idiot. 

We gently made our way down to Arc 1950, a picturesque little village which you can ski through en route down the mountain. It was from here that we made our first excited phone calls to share the news with the family. The potential for cheese overload here is too much to risk, so suffice to say that it was completely perfect and I hope I never forget it. We took a few lush photos, sent a few texts and then got the piste map out to decide on our route back to Arc 1800 (the resort we were staying in).

On the way back, I continued to neglect my ski technique and let my mind fill with all the wedding ideas I’d tried to supress since we’d been together for about six months. All of a sudden it was legit to peruse wedding blogs – no more would I have to minimise the internet browser window if in danger of getting caught in the act! Not only that, but now the bookmarked page I had of a ring I quite liked didn’t have to be secret, I’d been granted permission to practise the signature I’d use as a mrs AND I’d have an actual excuse for ripping pictures out of friends’ wedding magazines! Hold on – I could buy my own! I could make a scrapbook! I nearly crashed a number of times.

Fortunately, we managed to make it back without any injuries from lack of concentration. On our return to the apartment, we flung open the front door and asked our friends if they fancied coming to a wedding. After a few confused glances, the penny dropped and the waterworks started.  We flashed the plastic (he proposed with a temporary fashion ring) and told the story and it was really exciting. After a bit, The Husband To Be got in the shower. I remembered that we could show the guys our photos from the morning and was looking forward to sharing the picture of us sitting on the snow just after he’d proposed in particular. So I fished around in my salopette pockets to locate the camera. But it wasn't there.

I immediately assumed we’d put it in the backpack instead so I didn’t panic. After a quick rummage through, I still couldn’t find it. No matter, it’d be in The Husband To Be’s ski jacket. Except that it wasn’t. Or maybe his ski pants? Nope. Merde. A wave of dread came upon me and a few frantic minutes of double checking each of these places ensued. It soon became apparent that in the excitement of the moment, we’d only gone and left the friggin camera, which had on it the most amazing photo of the most amazing day of the most amazing holiday ever, up the friggin mountain. There was only one thing to be done: someone was going to have to go back up to search for it.

The Husband To Be emerged from the shower smelling fresh and fragrant and completely oblivious to the bombshell I was about to drop. This was going to be the first test of our engagement. He knows I love my photos. 

“I can’t find the camera anywhere.”

“Anywhere?”

“No. I need it.” 

The Husband To Be, who had already surpassed every expectation I had, pulled his sweaty snowboarding gear straight back on over his clean body. This was true love. He made his way back out into the snow where the visibility was getting worse by the minute. Like a hero, he ascended the mountain and boarded back down, retracing the route we’d taken and searched for the camera. He asked at the tourist information office in Arc 1950, he asked at the chair lift we’d taken after leaving Arc 1950 and stayed out looking for as long as he could whilst I kept my fingers crossed back at the apartment. No luck. It was gone.

I couldn’t help but feel completely gutted at first. But strangely, although I do absolutely LOVE my photos, in this case, for some reason, I wasn’t as distraught as I expected I might be. It was wrong to feel gutted about anything when the best ever thing had just happened. In fact, on reflection, I’ve decided that losing the camera was meant to be…

The Proposal Story: Chapter One

And the award goes to...

One night in Les Arcs, we went to a quiz. Over dinner, before we walked to the bar, we tested each other on classic quiz question fodder: capital cities, geographical landmarks, celebrity baby names, current affairs, the Olympics etc. and we felt confident that as a collective (there were eight of us) we weren’t too shoddy in the brains department. We’d booked the holiday through a snowsports tour operator which specialises in student trips, so actually this was going to be a walk in the park – we’d be pitted against a bunch of inebriated undergrads! There was no way we wouldn't reign victorious!

However, the quiz organisers obviously had students in mind when they prepared the evening’s entertainment. But this was no University Challenge, oh no. Brains didn’t matter so much – you needed brawn. Marks aplenty were on offer for various challenges other than answering questions correctly. Had we thought of a highly inappropriate and distasteful team name, been prepared to perform a human pyramid in the middle of the packed out bar, braved a long arm pint, stripped naked on the square or transferred a gobful of beer from mouth to mouth around the table we would definitely have come away with the win. Had certain friends been there we would have TRIUMPHED.

Anyway, we may not have won, but the quiz gave me inspiration. Best idea ever - I decided I’d write a blog about our ski trip in the style of a student tour awards! It was gonna be hilarious. All I had to do was think up some awards. On a chair lift up the mountain one morning, I mentioned this to the girls just in case they had any ideas as it was a few days since the quiz and I hadn’t gathered together a vast amount of material. All I had was this:

Ideas

Biggest dick: Dick (coach driver), awarded for spouting a constant stream of utter crap from the moment we departed Clacket Lane Services until we reached Les Arcs, and subjecting us to the same sexist, foul mouthed and ill informed tripe for the entirety of the journey home too. 

Best at reading a bus timetable: Christian, awarded for his ability to navigate home via bus after getting lost on the mountain. Twice.

Most likely to faff: everyone apart from Rich, who sat in the corridor outside our rooms for twenty minutes one morning, ready to ski, waiting for everybody else who was late because they were faffing around with their goggles/snacks/gloves/boots/hair/face/socks/camera/money/ski pass/bindings etc. 

A few days later and I hadn’t got much further in my thinking than this but it didn’t faze me. As The Boyfriend and I ascended the mountain on our final morning of skiing, I still had a few ideas running round my head and was confident some more would come.  Looking back, I wonder if he had been able to mind read what I was thinking in the gondola that morning, or whether he'd overheard my conversation with the girls on the chairlift. I think he wanted to win an award himself, because at the top of that mountain, he blew everything else out of the water in a moment of fabulousness when he asked me to be his wife. And then the awards were written.

Les Arcs 2013 Awards

Being The Best Ever: The Husband To Be.

The Proposal Story: Prologue

Prithee, lend me thine ears for I'm about to rip off Shakespeare...

The offspring of two households, both alike in dignity,

In the fair French Alps, where we lay our scene,

From forth the music society break to Aiguille Grive,

Where four words make for the most friggin amazeballs surprise in the whole entire world ever.

The son of one family and the daughter of another, seven years fond,

Cross off step one to becoming a housewife - 'get engaged' - from her bucket list.

The enamoured pair, whose adventures ere took them hither and thither,

Doth, with a ring, in the lush and lusty snow, commend to be wed.

She will wed him in another key,

With loved ones, and with much revelry (and the wine will be flowing most definitely).
The events from whence lead to this engagement,
Are now the words thou shall read for thy contentment.
The which, if you with patience attend,
What here shall miss, my hopefully not too cheesy writing shall strive to mend...

Progress

I’ve returned to the motherland this weekend but this evening I’ve been abandoned. Chris has temporarily flown the nest and is testing the parents’ nerves by jaunting off to Thailand for a month (with ambitions of being photographed alongside elephants, dog meat, ladyboys and all sorts). The parents are combatting the post-traumatic stress of his departure by having a jovial evening at the annual tennis club dinner. Anyway, in their absence, I've taken the opportunity to declutter my hard drive (OH YEH). In my clean up, I’ve realised that I have nearly as many un-posted blog entries as I do ones which were passed for public consumption.

This one was very interesting to read back…

 

23/04/12

I should be revelling in the fact that it’s Friday night. The night I have looked forward to all week. The distant night on the horizon, so close but so far away. However, instead of basking in it now that it's finally arrived, I have not long recovered from what could be called a mild panic attack (face tingling and everything). See, I am occasionally inclined (or not so occasionally, depending on who you ask) to feel sorry for myself when it comes to workload. I have mentioned said workload previously, so I probs don’t really need to spell it out. (But in case you’re not sure what I’m alluding to – I work like a friggin machine. Constant.)

Looking forward to the sanctum of Friday night, I left school at 6pm and headed to Sainsbury’s for a quick sweep.  Exhaustion crept upon me and I made my way home with only some Innocent smoothie, a packet of prawns and some leaves. Got back, and tiredness, plus a messy flat, plus hunger, plus carrying in bags and heavy boxes of work like an overladen donkey, plus an unrealistic expectation that on the stroke of 6pm I'd be washed in some sort of ethereal elation for the coming of the weekend, plus over heating (must banish the ski jacket to the cupboard) equalled despair. Much despair. Thankfully, post panic comfort came in the form of cuddles, a long soak in the bath and a sizeable glass of plonk.

Now, this probably didn’t make the cut originally because I didn’t want to come across as negative, which might make you wonder why I’m posting it now. Well, I’m posting it now because, reading this a year on, I’m feeling rather pleased about the realisation that my workload related resilience has obviously improved. Last week was mammoth (two parents’ evenings plus assessments galore served to challenge my capacity to cope) but, somehow, it was ok. I won’t lie, I suffered a few, intermittent bouts of minor malaise but I got over them. Any discontent seemed to be outweighed by positive stuff. It was a week of epic proportions but it was ok. This is progress. Progress has been made! This calls for a sizeable glass of plonk.

26

Over the past couple of months, a number of things have made me increasingly aware of the fact that I’m closer to thirty than I am to twenty. 

The first of these realisations was when Radio 1 recently rebranded the Breakfast Show. When Chris Moyles presented it, I quite enjoyed my journey to work, especially on a Tuesday (when I say pub, you say quiz – pub – quiz! - pub – quiz! When I say Rob, you say DJ – Rob – DJ! – Rob – DJ! When I say fan, you say dabbydozy – fan – dabbydozy! - fan – dabbydozy! etc...)  But then Nick Grimshaw took over and I thought he was crap. His laugh is annoying and I care not one bit for his choice of subject matter. Suddenly I felt shunted from the Radio 1 target demographic and I wanted the pub quiz back. As soon as I realised that nobody was making me listen to the drivel, I switched over to Classic FM (which is normally reserved for the holidays) but it’s not exactly the upbeat kick start I need each day. Not thinking that there were other alternatives, I switched off altogether and spent a week or two trundling along in the morning with my own thoughts. But then I realised that there might actually be other options. So I flicked hopefully through the airwaves one morning until I found what I was looking for: Radio 2. I didn’t ever think I’d find solace in Chris Evans but now he, along with Lynn and Vassos, are my little morning crew. But Radio 2 is for old people. Ergo, I’m old.

Secondly, I have a confession to make: my hair colour isn’t entirely natural. If I don’t get it dyed in the next couple of weeks, I will have a more than a few white hairs infiltrating my youthful chestnut locks. I’ve dyed my hair relatively regularly for a few years now but I had the scary realisation today that for a while I’ve been getting it dyed out of necessity, which means I’ll continue to need to visit my colourist every seven to eight weeks until it becomes acceptable to let go and sport the salt and pepper look. This is at least another twenty years away, which means that I’m going to be spending over £6000 of my hard earned money on keeping my hair brown. Yikes. What's more worrying is that it won’t be long before I can say that I have a relationship with my colourist.

I also seem to be partaking in significantly more conversations about marriage and babies than I did so in my early twenties. I’ve received enough wedding invites now to justify having a pretty little box to keep them in and, although The Boyfriend doesn’t know it yet (he does now), I have allowed myself to jot down an idea or two from weddings I have attended, you know, because one day they could potentially come in useful. Also, a close friend has recently announced that she’s with child, which is unbelievably exciting, so I’ve been imparting as much advice as I can from my extensive experience of One Born Every Minute. She also asked for baby name ideas and I had a ‘Monica’ moment when I was genuinely hesitant to offer up my favourites just in case she liked them too much. I’m also a bit jealous of her buying a baby names book. (I’ve secretly always wanted one. Not joking.)

Eek!