On the 11th year of skiing...

There is nothing worse than standing at the top of an icy ski slope, wondering how on earth you are going to get down on the two strips of wood that the uncomfortable boots on your aching feet are clinging onto. Actually, the only thing worse would be the addition of an impatient instructor and a crocodile line of other peers watching from the 12 meters below. This was me – ‘the one at the back’ and I used to dread these holidays every year. The constant worry of how I was going to stand up if I fell over (It’s been 11 years and I still can’t regain my stance without taking my skis off). The faraway voice of the vaguely attractive instructor yelling in a thick Italian accent ‘LOUISEEEEEE, PARALLEL SKIIIIIS!’ as I, quivering from the top of black slope number 3 correct him for the 6^th time, ‘it’s Louisa’. Not to forget the undignified trek through the village every afternoon as I struggle to carry all of my equipment without dropping it; beads of sweat dribbling down my face like snowballs rolling down the mountain.

I always told myself that the reason for being ‘the one at the back’ was because of the accident I had 11 years ago where dad took us down blue number 14 instead of blue number 11, and I ended up rolling (head first) towards the cliff edge with a suddenly rather flexible knee lumbering behind me. That was year 1; torn ligaments, crutches, and not being able to go on the slide at ‘Avon Valley Country Park’ for 5 weeks because I was in a plaster cast.

Years 2 through to 6 were not much better. There were no more trips to the hospital but I was still adamant that, no matter how many snow-plough turns I did, I was not going to get down the mountain in one piece. 6 days a year of skiing had brought me anything but a talent for skiing. Every January I would realise that, in less than 3 months, I would be stood at the top of another unpassable slope, with yet another impatient instructor urging me down, and more bratty children snaking past me as my tears steam up my sunglasses. It would literally be the biggest dread of the year.

I will never forget the day my mum told me that we ‘weren’t going to bother with ski school this year’ rather casually as we sat in the car at some red traffic lights. I felt like a massive weight had been lifted, and my mum was actually really surprised at how relieved I felt. I always enjoyed the afternoons in La Thuile, skiing with my family and some friends, and it occurred to me that I now have nothing to worry about. My mum and dad would always wait for me, a couple of meters behind, to pick me up when I fall over.

11 years since I first squeezed a pair of uncomfortable, clumpy size 5 ski boots onto my feet, I have returned from yet another week of skiing in the sun – this time in Cervinia. As corny as it may sound, I absolutely love skiing now (and might I add, I’m now fairly good at it!). On day 2 of our holiday this year, I saw a tiny girl, she must have been about 6, fall over at the back of the group in her ski lesson. She couldn’t get up and if anything was going to metaphorically represent the changing of my enjoyment and confidence on the slopes, it was going to be a (cheesy) scene where I side-slip down and help her stand up and put her skis back on. I’m not self-congratulating or anything; it just made me realise that I have overcome this massive confidence issue that I once had about snow sports. I know that ski school is useful to build up skills and confidence, but often all somebody needs to pick themselves up, and brush themselves off is a little TLC.

The introduction to my autobiography...

I hate to say it but that fringe has only recently gone. I should've ditched it sooner

Now that I think about it, it’s actually really difficult to introduce my autobiography. I mean, how am I supposed to start - “Thanks for wanting to read about my life, but bear in mind it’s not very interesting”? I thought about starting it like one of those soppy videos, ‘a message to my 16 year old self’ and proceed from there, but bearing in mind I am only just 17, my advice would be less along the lines of ‘follow your heart’ and more along the lines of ‘don’t forget to take your toothbrush on holiday when you go to Turkey’. So here goes – I was born on a battlefield on the South of the Serbian border, whilst the enemy was shooting from both sides and my father was recovering from a nasty blow to the head; my birth was truly a miracle. Nah, just kidding. To be honest, my birth was pretty normal I think. When my mum went into labour with my older sister, Eleanor, my dad was late to the hospital because he had just scored 100 runs in an important cricket game. I don’t have an interesting story like that. I think that was the closest that Eleanor and I had ever been to succeeding in sport, much to our father’s dismay. The rise and fall of my football career came when, in year 5, I tried to impress a boy on the playground by kicking a runaway ball back to him, but it ended up plummeting straight for a wall and bouncing right back to me. Anyway, all my mum has really ever told me about when I was born was that the midwife on call was ‘fat, sweaty and grumpy’ and my timing meant that mum missed ‘Coronation Street’. It doesn’t get much more interesting; the majority of my childhood was spent sitting, alone, in our spare bedroom, waiting for somebody to come and buy a stamp from my makeshift post office. Nobody ever did. In fact, the biggest profit I made from it was when we sold it for £2 at a car boot sale last year.