|
It was yet another cold, snowy day. Visibility was virtually non-existent, and as an added bonus, an arctic wind was walloping Switzerland’s ski slopes, torturing my sister’s chapped, magenta cheeks with a heavenly supply of ice shards as the chairlift shuddered up the mountain.
Her long, dark brown hair poked out from beneath her black wooly hat in rigid, frozen tufts. Hunched over her ski poles, rigid with cold beneath her orange Gortex suit, my sister suddenly felt the relentless tickle of mucus tormenting the tip of her nose.
Gripping her poles between her legs, she carefully removed her stiff, leather gloves and rummaged through the forty-eight pockets of her ski jacket, desperately seeking a soggy packet of tissues. I’d like to think that, at this point, she wondered what the heck she was doing, hanging limply in her snowy inferno when she could have been home, tucked up by the fire with a cup of tea and a magazine, but there you have it; some members of my family are gluttons for meteorological punishment whenever snow enters the equation.
Meanwhile, Giovanna, her ten-year-old daughter, sat quietly next to her, her porcelain blonde complexion somewhat shielded from the elements by her silver helmet, her bean-pole body stoic beneath her purple ski-suit.
“Oh, my nose!” grumbled my sister, sniffing repeatedly. “I always get such a drippy nose when it’s cold. Do you want a tissue, too, Giovanna?”
“No thank you,” replied my niece.
“Don’t you get a drippy nose when it’s cold?” wondered my sister.
The child shook her head. “Blondes never do,” she replied, matter-of-factly.
Who knew?
|
