Dear Father Christmas


It has been a while since my last confession.   Oh hang on a minute.   Wrong script.

Let’s start again

Father Christmas, hello

You won’t remember me because I last wrote to you when I was 11, in 1979.   And might I say, sir, that you have not changed a bit.   What is your secret?  What’s that?  The love of Mrs Christmas?  Oh that’s lovely.     I have changed, sadly.  I have three children of my own now, but then you know that as you have always been very generous to them, thank you.  I have put on a few pounds since 1979, whereas you, well you have ummm  maintained your weight beautifully.     Well done.

So why am I writing to you now?  Well you see, there is something that I would really really like for Christmas this year.  Something that isn’t just for me, but is actually for the family too.   And the deadline is today because you need to get the order into the elves so they can get it all sorted by Monday as they only have time to do five.    So I am a bit last minute, again.

What’s that?  Homework on the bus?  Yes, Father Christmas,  that’s me, yep, well remembered.   Maybe I haven’t really changed at all.

What I would really like this year is a ski holiday.   No wait.  Hear me out, please.   I would like to take my family on a ski holiday because we have never had one.   Not just any old ski holiday either, but a Mark Warner holiday.  I know I know, it’s a big ask isn’t it?  But if you have two minutes I would like to explain.

I went on ski holidays as a teenager and loved them.   Well I have to admit I didn’t the first time we went.  It was Scotland and I was in ski school.   My parents had arranged to meet me at the cafe by the chair lift at the end of the day.   Sensible.  Except the ski instructor was a bit of a <insert a word you can’t say in front of Father Christmas> and left me at the cafe at the bottom of the chair lift.

Without a lift pass

I was 10

And had to walk to the other cafe

Up a mountain

In ski boots

I am not even joking

I wasn’t very excited then when my parents announced the following October that we were going on a family ski holiday for Christmas.   This didn’t fill me with much joy and cheer.

And then announced that as they had to mortgage their souls to pay for the trip we wouldn’t be having any presents either.

Yeah, you can imagine that face, can’t you?

But do you know what Father Christmas, I blummin loved it.   I loved skiing.  I loved it every year after that too.  I can’t remember how many ski holidays we went on but I do remember loving them.  Getting medals for completing weeks of ski school.  Progressing from snow plough and huge turns to being able to traverse pistes.   Yes, look, even picking up the lingo.    To hearing my dad say “right you can get down anything now.  It might take you an hour but you can do it, girl”.   Reassuring me that the Wall of Death is just a joke and that it really wasn’t a black run with moguls.   That seriously I could do it.   And that bit the other side wasn’t really uphill but was in fact easy if you got enough speed up on the downhill bit first.

And as I bombed down the downhill bit and then fell over at the bottom because I was terrified my parents skied down and gave me a hip flask and said “have a little bit of that and then let’s do it”.

And we did do it.    We got to the top of that uphill bit by walking up in our skis.

And as I looked back behind me I realised, aged 13 that nothing was impossible.   That I could do anything.  Little tubby me could conquer a black run and that meant I could conquer the world.


Skiing did that.

Oh and whatever that was in my dad’s hip flask.

When I left home, ski holidays stopped.  I couldn’t afford to go.  Oh and then I moved to Saudi Arabia for six years and I am sure it hasn’t escaped your attention, Father Christmas, but skiing in Saudi is a bit tricky.  So I didn’t do it.

Until I met Mr B and we saw an advert in a Sunday paper soon after we met.  It said that you could go on a mad ski weekend to raise money for Scope.  You just had to ski 24 peaks in 48 hours.   So off we went, raising over £3000 between us.  And nearly killing ourselves in the process.

Digging out photos of me as teen for a blog post the other day I came across a pic of me with my mum on a ski holiday, and one with my dad too (don’t worry, we were all on the same holiday, just separate pics).   I am smiling and am happy, and they are happy too.  They are great family pics and great family holidays.

Next year we are not going to get a summer holiday.   We normally go away for a few weeks in the summer but now that C is working and it looks like J is heading to uni it wont happen in the summer.   A ski holiday would, therefore, be the perfect holiday for us.

We could have those happy smiley photos in our collection too.   My teens could see what it is like to get a suntan that makes you look like a panda.   Taste the best hot chocolate ever when you get to the chalet at the end of the day.   Cake.   Mmmmmmm cake made by the lovely people that run the chalets.   Best cake ever.

E is doing GCSE PE and if she went on a ski holiday she could use that as her sport as she has to pick one major sport.   That could be it!  We just need to video her doing it.  I promise I won’t video her falling over.  Or post it on Youtube.  And laugh.

I know that I will have to do lots of work for the holiday, firstly get fit.   So I know I have to do my bit too.   Maybe Mr B could video that and put it on Youtube and laugh?  And I have to do lots of writing afterwards, and I promise I won’t leave the blog posts to the last minute and do them all on the bus.

Father Christmas if you could make it happen for us to go on a ski holiday with Mark Warner next year and make me a #MarkWarnerMum I promise I will never ask you for anything ever again.

Not even a Mulberry handbag.  THAT’s how much I would love to go skiing.


Mummy Barrow

Aged 44

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.