“Trente-Trois.” Says the ski guide as I convulse once more. I heave so hard I am sure an avalanche will duly follow.
It was my cousin’s stag weekend and I was the best man. I was far from happy about the choice of venue. The cost of the ski-lift tickets and specialised clothing was one thing. But being woken up at 07:30 in the morning so I could drag my sorry arse up a mountain whilst carrying the weight of skis, poles, moon boots and the heaviest hangover of them all was just plain ridiculous.
“But Ching…the fresh air on the piste will do you good mate. It’s the perfect cure for an hangover.”
But it wasn’t the perfect cure for my hangover. The perfect cure for my hangover was to sleep. If I am asleep then I cannot be sick. That’s my cure. And anyway we are going to be right back on the lash in a few hours time. Why the fuck am I being dragged up the side of a fucking mountain when I am going to puke all the way up and all the way down?
I don’t remember anything of that mountain. I traveled to the Alps and skied between France and Switzerland apparently observing some of the most natural beauty in the world. It all passed by me in a daze. All I remember is puking, pissing and shitting.
That was in 2007. I remember apologising to my cousin when all was said and done. I didn’t half complain, moan and groan on that holiday. Well, that and the fact that I stuck his toothbrush up my arse and allowed him to brush his teeth with it. I remember thinking it was terribly funny; my cousin didn’t, and neither did his wife. So I apologised, and said it was unfortunate, because I really do believe I would enjoy skiing if I was sober.
It’s cold now. The spindly fingers reach into the crevices of my scarf and scratch my neck and back. I grab the cotton with my teeth and pull the scarf over my mouth. It’s searing. Like a cold kind of heat, but I need it. My heart is pounding as blood rushes through my veins at the same speed as I raced down the green run only moments earlier. I look to my left and to the form of my woman. I smile a wicked smile. I am the luckiest bastard on this planet. I wouldn’t trade places with anyone in the world. The ski lift throws me from my seat and I head down the mountain with my lips pulled towards my ears.
I am so grateful that I decided to stop pouring poison down my throat. Everything is so much clearer now. Please, come and join me.
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