Holiday week.  Much anticipated family ski. Our best kind of family holiday. Me, that is wife-mother-grandmother arrived in the French mountains contemplating a week of books, mountain air, swims and meeting for a little aprés ski before who-so-evers’ turn it was to cook or pay for (!) supper. Perfect. What could possibly go wrong. With 85% of my family not forgetting little O too.

We survived what should have been an easy journey spoilt by the buggers in Luton airport who took me off for a strip search on account of my catheter.  The security guard and the chaperone seemed to think talking about the merits of bleach versus mr muscle was part of their keep-the-passenger-calm training. They soon looked less calm when they spied the catheter. Lutony have responded during the week to my complaint, saying they strip search everyone with a catheter. That is a LIE. More of that another day. More bleach to come. In fact Geneva on the way back could not have been easier kinder quicker no stupid bleach chat no strip search.

Anyhow, to France. Day 1. Banned from skiing I pretended not to mind as they all trooped off leaving me holding O.  He’s fun. So..

First 24 hours was indeed marvellous .  Sun, swim, stroll, read book, met the others at the top. Wonderful perfect mountain day. The temptation to jump into someone’s skis and just fly like I used to was tricky.

Alas , the skiers, one by one, fell foul ( I use the word purposely)….to mountain-omelette-tummy…

Pewking and pooping ..night after night in turn…spending daytime asleep or waiting for little toast, complicated there on that side of Brexititis, iced water or can of coke that most magic of tummy medicine, to be rushed to them.  So, peace and quiet shattered. Their brilliant holiday out of precious leave really messed up. Fortunately previous experiences of holidaying with my family has given me the confidence to ask for all essentials in French. ie Javel ( bleach) which I sprayed liberally everywhere…I maybe overdid it..the babies hair became rather white, my hands were rather wrinkly…the bathrooms rather well bleached! .

I did not succumb to this particular bug…that’s me..fit as a fiddle microbes won’t touch me ..HAH! I had to admit, when asked, by the worried children, that  kidney, bladder and back  were  moaning but I’d no time for that . I stuffed my ‘apres’ cocktails of antibiotics…just keeping all at bay. Nothing new there.

Baby too, mercifully fine…he didn’t like me reading my books. But he loved lounging in a jacuzzi with my pet lobster ( Don’t ask!)Thank god I managed to dip into a hilarious book called Dear Lupin sent to me by my new friend C.

The walk of 100 yards to the poubelle,  now to be known as PooBell. I think I went there 500 times. Complex Brexit recycling poubelle another 200 yards, should I should say 200 metres, if we are still in EU . …hang on…Are we?

I took O out on these expeditions… we found café au lait,  beignets,  chickens and lorries and parapentes. Showed him geese too. One I called ‘Foie’. The other ‘Gras’. He chuckled at every crazy thing I told him!

Then on the last day. The sun shone. Some managed a little ski. I joined them for aprés at the top. We smiled. We did photos. Ahhh. Holiday mood nearly restored!

Returning through Geneva security was no trouble at all. The only mishap was my bloody ridiculous stupid Catheter valve thingy pinged off again and thus leaked down my trousers 20 minutes before boarding. My cabin bag ALWAYS has a change of clothes. Errr for some reason I had forgotten . What to do? Buy some eye watering expensive Swiss duty free lederhosen!? In the kind of rôle reversal I dream of. Daughter 2, who had been proper poorly all week, sprung into action. She had some sports ‘leggings’ in her bag. I found my stupid valve. Changed in the ladies and boarded the plane. Dear Reader my daughter is a 6 foot skinny rower. I as you know am NOT! I can say the ‘leggings ‘ fit fine. God only knows what I looked like. Thankfully I met no one I knew. My family just giggled. And we made it home. Phew.