The tepid turkey -part 4

As the plane flew over New Zealand, I was amazed at the beauty of the country. After living for 20 years in flat Australia, it was a sight to behold. Mountains, peaks  galore, and snow at the tip of each one. What fun we would have in the next 5 days. The thrill of skiing and speeding. It had been too long since the last time.

The first day passed in a flurry of organising. Hotel, check; ski gear, check; ski pass, check; have a lovely evening exploring Queenstown, check.

No once did I miss the turkey or tobacco.

At dawn the next day, we set out to the top of mountain, and at last started skiing. Oh, the joy of it! The feel of the snow under ones  ski, the speed, the languorous turns over small obstacles. Those 2 hours were the happiest in a very long time.

I did not see the patch of ice until I was down. And the crying was less about the pain than the knowledge that I would not ski again this holiday. I must have yelled as my knee broke, because shortly after the turkey found me. I was in the emergency centre of the ski slopes, when she appeared,  quite out of breath, and landed on my shoulder.

“Gee that was a long flight. But don’t worry, I’m here” said she. “Let the doctor patch you up, and we’ll have lunch, a mulled wine, and find a tobacconist.”

“Go away, Turkey. I’ll have lunch, and a mulled wine. As for the rest, you are mistaken. I came here to ski and breathe. The skiing is over but not the breathing.” If she was offended she did not let on.

Over the next 4 days, I was stuck with an irritable turkey. As we could not ski, or even explore our marvellous surroundings, we became adept at lying in bed, watch the paint dry, and do a bit of soul searching.

“I’m bored” would Turkey say. “Let’s do something, anything! We could go, have  coffee and a cigarette, cigarette, cigarette.”

“I am doing something.” said i. “I am resting my knee and  thinking long and hard on how to get rid of you. My happiest thoughts are about terminating you. Now shut up and let me read.”

Jiminy was doing summersaults on my shoulder  but had the wisdom to keep silent.

On the last day in NZ, the turkey was a bit teary. “Don’t you love me anymore?” I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth, so I kept mum, knowing her days were numbered. Christmas in July was a very sound idea, and I knew what I would be roasting on the day.

To be continued….

Next to come: “The day I throw turkey out.”