6.57 a.m. I wake up three minutes before the alarm is due to go off, aware that I have slept badly: dipping in and out of consciousness. All night I’ve been fretting, imagining the various ways in which I might kill myself on the mountain today. I am not a good skier. I often fall over and sometimes, in deep snow, become cast like a sheep, wedged, unable to rise. If frightened I freeze, like a rabbit. Cousin Peter, my septuagenarian ski-guru, says that I’m finally ready to come ski-touring off-piste with him and his guide, Fred. I feel sick. I want to stay in the chalet and sketch, or make raclette.
7.30 a.m. Outside, the French Alps are still in shadow but the sky is brightening. Plasters, long socks, salopettes. I shuffle through to the kitchen, where cousin Peter is packing his knapsack for our day out: sun cream; goggles; hat; sandwiches, water; shovel.
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