La Caron

The French medical system may be lauded, and it is good, but no better than ours. Dave had fallen against a wall and lacerated his ear, quite badly. He needed expert sewing. That's why I was in the waiting room of the Val Thorens medical centre.

Last night we had made a slightly better show of apres ski. We had gone out, but were still back in bed for 10pm. We went to the Frog and Steak (weird name for a bar) and we saw a rocking band. Although there are Irish and Danish bars, there isn't an English bar, but this comes closest to one. It is full of English, there's an English band on, and a Yard of Ale challenge for anyone foolish enough. The band played some of the old classic tunes, reminding me of Harvey. Although not quite following our routine, they play tunes like 'born to be wild', 'jumping jack flash' and 'House of the rising sun'. No 'Knights in White Satin'. In the other bars the juke box played tunes, eighty percent of which were on my ipod. Meanwhile we are the oldest rockers in town and completely ignored by the younger contingent who, no doubt, wonder if we know any these modern songs.

So today we set off up to the highest point of the Val Thorens resort. The glacier at La Caron. The ski helmet debate raged, with the 'faster skiers' still not really thinking this item is for them. The more nervous of us had ours. Apparently Aldi had done a good deal on them. Peter and Jonny are proud of theirs. The others don't bother. I have mine of course.

We head for what seems literally at the top of the world. This the reason we go skiing. The scenery and the pistes. The views. Perfect for skiing. A perfect skiing morning. Jagged sharp white mountain tops and icy blue sky. The bright sun contrasting with the stinging wind that whistles through your helmet and iceburns your forehead till it hurts.

But Dave is in a hurry to meet his friends from home. His Newark friends who are also here, and whom he wants to impress. After delaying him deliberately for as long as possible we hurtle off to our rendezvous point. This is when the accident happened.

In his haste to meet up, Dave slipped on some ice and crashed into the stone wall of the hut we had stopped at. Blood everywhere and when the commotion had settled, an inch slice in his upper cartilaginous ear lobe. That's why I'm sitting in a medical centre waiting room and wondering how long it can take to sew up an ear.

The waiting room is the same as an English waiting room. Busy with patient people, out of date magazines, and unhelpful receptionists. The others have gone off to a bar, and after an hour or so Dave emerges with a bandage on his head. He shows me the stitches. Very impressive. There must be fifteen or more, tiny, carefully done stitches. Cosmetic surgery quality.

Later in the bar he is quite proud of his injury, but under no circumstances are we to tell his wife before he does and he gets home.

Now it's over we can have a bit of a laugh about it, and as someone says 'It could have been worse...It could have been me!' At least the helmet debate was resolved.