And the answer - if you're remotely interested - is...

...not Switzerland, Bulgaria (although not a bad guess), Bosnia, Macedonia, Monte Negro, Slovenia or Serbia.

No, the city pictured in this post was Tblisi (pronounced 'Bilisi' by the locals, apparently), the ski resort was Gudauri and the country as a whole? Georgia.

And somewhere between leaving on holiday a week ago and getting home this evening I seem to have acquired a spare tire made exclusively of Khachapuri...

Always check, check, and check again...

...or in other words, don't get blindly on ski lift without checking where it goes first.

We just got back from our week skiing and bless me father, for I have sinned.

I took my seven and five year old sons down a red run.

What the ?

As you can tell, we've come a long way baby from the post I wrote about trying to get Boy #2 to master a 'pizza slice' on the slopes; God help me, he can do 'chips' as well now (which for the uninitiated means pointing your skis straight down the slope). And luckily, I had re-found my skiing mojo after the lesson from a friend that I mentioned in the same post. However, that still doesn't excuse our adventure (I'm calling it an 'adventure', but I'm guessing you'll understand by that I mean 'incredibly stupid escapade') on Saturday afternoon, when the Potty Family got on the wrong ski lift and ended up at the top of Mount Death.

I can only count my blessings that a) the weather was fabulous, meaning we could actually see the slope properly b) there was plenty of recently fallen soft snow to act as a landing pad (not that it proved necessary), c) Husband was with us and able to carry Boy #2 down the one part of the slope that proved too much for him and d) we were also with a good friend and her 5 year old son, and who - also being a very good skier - with her matter-of-fact demeanour and calm resolution not to be phased by the situation, helped me to keep my cool and to ski Boy #1 down whilst Husband dealt with Boy #2.

With the exception of the carrying incident the Boys were admirably relaxed about their 'adventure' (see? That word again), to the extent that I am now seriously considering not ever taking them skiing again because give it two years and there will be no stopping them. I'll be reduced to being the anxious mum wringing my hands at the bottom of the double black diamond slopes as they whoop their way carelessly down them, no doubt.

I should also say that the resort we were staying in was rather namby-pamby with their classifications of degrees of difficulty; most of the red slopes would have been labelled blue in France, for example.

But enough excuses, because despite the fact that we actually had fun whilst doing this, Christ, I never want to do that again.

Pride, falls, and snow in your face

Well, that'll learn me.

Not long ago I wrote a post where I mentioned that I felt I had - after 15-odd years of throwing myself down the side of a mountain - at least partially mastered the art of downhill skiing.

Pride comes before a fall, however, (or in my case, any number of them), and it seems that between now and 4 weeks ago I lost all memories of how to ski in anything other than a style which could most aptly be described as 'headless chicken'.

Perhaps it's because on this trip I have been preoccupied with encouraging Boy #2 to master the 'pizza slice' (aka 'snow plough stop' to anyone over the age of 6), and jollying him along when he tells me he hates skiing, hates Austria, hates his teacher, and hates me for leaving him there. Only to have a great time the moment my back is turned, obviously (I know this to be the case because I have taken to skulking behind other parents like a mad woman, using them as human shields between him and I so that he thinks I've gone when in fact I'm keeping a weather eye...)

Or perhaps it's because I have a bit of mental block about skiing in Austria based on a spectacularly unsuccessful trip here a few years back where the pistes where poorly groomed and I tangled more than once with an inexpert snow-boarder. Which is ridiculous, because my skiing has improved since then and the resort where I'm staying has some of the widest, most forgiving runs I've ever seen, and plenty of fresh snow on which to turn and - of course - fall.

Whatever the reason, however, things haven't been going so well for me on the slopes and I think that the following exchange between Husband and I yesterday probably illustrates how frustrated I was feeling about the whole thing.

I had just fallen over. Again.

Husband: "Come on, cheer up. It's funny really. You've got to laugh!"

I grimaced and muttered, but didn't say much. If, however, marital harmony were less important to me I suspect that I might have said the following:

"No, actually, I don't. I'm 44 years old and after 15 years at the this game, I still don't know how to fucking ski. My 7 year old son can now ski faster than me, and even my 5 year old son has less fear of falling than me. Tell me, what - exactly - is funny about that?"

Lucky I'm not single, or I think I might have to take 'GSOH' off my list of personal traits...

Note: Since that exchange a friend who is both a spectacularly good skier and spectacularly patient and who just happens to be staying in the same resort took me under his wing and reminded me of all things I've learned - and forgotten - in various ski classes over the years. Things are now much better. And there are unsubstantiated rumours that I may even be recovering my sense of humour.

My weekend...

'Nuff said.

(Although... don't hold me to that. More sick-making posts on my 3 days out may follow...)

British Mummy Blogger of the Week

We're back in Moscow following our week in the French Alps (expect a post on all that shortly, you lucky things). Our 3am arrival, the mountain of laundry, and the prospect of a trip to Ikea and the supermarket this afternoon aren't exactly joyful, but the fact that the sun is shining and that it must be at least 8 degC outside are definitely helping to combat the post-holiday blues.

Happy Easter, one and all!

Now, after last week's abject failure to come up with the goods on the Blogger of the Week front (please accept my apologies - I can only plead over-excitement at the prospect of a week's exposure to French wine, bread and cheese in my defence), have you ever wondered what the term 'jumping the shark' means, and what the similarities between finding your first boyfriend and Sky Plus are? Me neither - or at least, not until I came across this British Mummy Blogger of the Week. Paparazzi Mum writes of herself:

'I’m a journalist, wife and mother...I set up paparazzimum.tv because I’m a popular culture nut and I love to rant about all things celebrity. I hope you enjoy. xx'

For the British Mummy Bloggers Ning, click here. (Note: It's called 'Mummy', but Dads can be members too).

We're OK - you're OK...

I remember back in the 1980's and 1990's, living in London, that friends and family would call just to check I was OK whenever any kind of terrorist attack happened there. Never mind that - like Motherhood, the Final Frontier said in an e-mail she sent me this morning - I was living in a city of 8 million people and the chances of my being affected by any of them were extremely remote; people still felt the urge to check. I'm grateful that they took the time to reach out, really I am. I have to admit that I had forgotten all about that aspect of living in a temporarily besieged city when we heard this morning by e-mail of the attacks this morning on the Moscow Metro.

So apologies for my not having posted earlier to let anyone concerned know that not only we were not directly affected, but that we're not even in Russia this week (hence the radio silence on the blog). We're skiing, in France, thank god, far from terrorist bombs and the carnage that no doubt took place in those stations this morning.

More of our adventures on the slopes tomorrow, but in the meantime thanks again to everyone who has e-mailed and left a comment on my last post to check that we're OK; I really appreciate the sentiment that led you to get in touch.