Sherlock on the Slopes

Sir Arthur Conan
Doyle invented skiing. Or rather, he introduced it to Switzerland,
from whence it spread to the rest of Europe. Prior to that, it was
popular in Norway, but practically unheard of on the continent. It’s
odd to think of both a ski free Alps, and an eccentric Englishman
brow-beating the local Swiss into propelling themselves off the top
of a mountain with a pair of planks strapped to their feet.

I’ve always fancied
myself as a man out of time. I’d love to be an immaculately dressed
Englishman, strolling the slopes in my tweeds and wooden skis, while
the locals nod and smile and comment on the mad Englishman who thinks
that plus-fours are appropriate outerwear for a mountaintop.

Sadly, it’s not
really like that. For a start, I’m not very into tweed. It seems
quite itchy. Also, the locals don’t really seem to get their role of
genteel and charming hosts. Instead, they barge about like they own
the place, skiing too close, smoking too much, and shoving their way
onto the ski lifts. I’m not sure they’ve even heard of queuing.

To be fair, most of
the people here are charming. It’s a few that spoil it for all the
rest. We were getting onto a ski lift, it was crowded, and so we
stuck close, waited our turn and, when an empty cabin turned up,
moved en masse to get in. There’s four of us, the cabin takes eight.
It should have been easy. Then, out of nowhere, a huge, hulking
Frenchman dressed in a black one-piece ski suit shoved Joachin to one
side and barged his way in front. Joachin is ten. He was terrified.
He thought he was going to fall in front of the next car. Meanwhile,
Sue was already aboard and heading upwards, while I was left behind
trying to calm the children and shepherd them onto the next available
ride.

Naturally I was
livid. I was fuming all the way up the mountain. When the gondola
reached the top, I found Sue, made sure the children had their skis,
then looked around for the man in black. He wasn’t far away, putting
on his skis as if nothing had happened. I stormed over, tapped him on
the shoulder and then launched into my tirade.

I was halfway
through when a horrified Sue interrupted.

“It wasn’t him,”
she told me.

“Of course it
was,” I insisted.

I turned back to the
man in black.

“Sorry, mate,”
he said in a strong Australian accent, “what is it I’ve done
again?”

“Oh,” I said, my
heart suddenly in my boots as I realised I’d been shouting at a
complete stranger, “I’m really sorry. I can’t apologise enough. I
thought you were French.”

I left him
considering my apparent xenophobia. We saw him and his family a
number of times on the mountain after that. He didn’t say anything. I
didn’t blame him.