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I’m sitting at the smallest airport waiting for a delayed flight with a thousand other post ski-holiday travellers. Between their goggle tans and sporting of the latest trend in footwear by design team Nasa/Abba, ‘moon boots’, they really are a hideous bunch.

I’m starving but the choice of food in this joint is dismal; a soggy ham baguette going for a credit crunch FAIL of €5 and MaccyD’s, neither of which Girlfriend, card-carrying lezzer she is, will abide. I couldn’t care, I have ethics until I’m starving and then I’d probably eat my family pet if it was served with ketchup.

This seems like as good a time as any to start a column. I need to occupy myself. I also need to stop staring at that woman’s furry coat which is beginning to look vaguely bovine, a little edible, if not downright delicious.

My holiday was great, thanks for asking. Except I almost broke my arm and have a Russia shaped bruise which has usurped one whole butt cheek. I guess that’s just the price one’s got to pay for owning the slopes. Both of us originating in a country where snow is only ever seen on Coke ads, Girlfriend and I decided to educate ourselves in winter sports this Easter.

We chose snowboarding over skiing assuming it would be the obvious dykey alternative. How wrong we were, the entire place was het to the horizon bar one sighting of the lesser known alpine lesbian couple. Although we exchanged the compulsory glances of affirmation, they didn’t invite us to hit the half pipes with them because they too were poncey skiers. So much for that theory.

Would you look at that? I’ve reached the word count already and I didn’t even get to the part where we met up with the ski-dykes later and had a fierce orgy on a speeding snowmobile. And I’m still ravenous. Well, it’s been real, until next time, rugmunchers.

Faith Bosworth

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