Like a fart in a lift

There is a problem on ski lifts. The chair lifts and pommas are OK, because they are in the open air, but beware any lift that is in an enclosed space. The carbohydrate rich diet that is normally available in profusion at most of the mountain restaurants seems ideally suited to those with a predilection for flatulence. In my experience it takes less than ten seconds from the doors closing before you experience the first whiff of trouble. Normally, the earlier in the trip that you get that first suspicious moment, the longer the trip lasts before fresh air is reintroduced into ones life.
Worse still, people who normally suffer from such problems seem over come and, with their comparative lack of experience in hiding their guilt, exhibit embarressment of the highest order

Past masters of the disguise of such misdeeds, (and I hope that nice lady decorator will not be offended here) are adept at transferring blame with an accusing look at some poor innocent who happened to be in the vicinity at the time of trump. This however is more difficult to achieve in a small area with a finite number of potential guilty parties, however it does not stop her trying.

My picture today comes under the “arty” slogan, for which I am rightly renowned. It is taken on the last run back over from Italy to La Rosiere in France, with the sun going down and the mist already collecting in the valleys, but with the sun full at you. I think I might enter into the National Geographic photo of the year competition.

So today is the start of 2011, and my only chance to see some of it before midday will come in those hours after midnight, as I do not expect to be in circulation first think this morning. That nice lady decorator has kindly helped with the pacing of the evening by inviting all and sundry to our sumptuous (not) appartment for champagne right in the middle of my pre designated siesta time, so at the time of writing I am not best pleased as I had in mind a sleep and a relatatively late start to the evening.

We are dure to attend a gliittering ball (at least I think the disco will have a gliitering ball) at a local restaurant where the main course on the fixed menu is a fillet de boeuf, which suits me down to the ground but there are several vegetarians in our midst who have expressed concern.  I did not increase my poularity stakes this afternoon when this subject was being discussed when I suggested that the cows involved were vegetarians.

Due to the near certainty that I shall not be conscious in the morning at that none of you will be up before dawn, this last missive of the year is being lovingly constructed for you, my happy readers, before the news years even festivities commence so Happy New Year to all.

Chris France

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