Well, it’s 1600 on Friday, and we’re just driving through Sestriere for the last time, with only another 20+ hours of travelling ahead of us. O…M…G! Beam me up Scotty! If you recognise that, you’re beyond youthfulness, which is how I felt today when peeling myself off the snow after wiping out on the very last run. See, I’m at it again: drifting (pun alert) off piste.

Right, let’s wrap this up with a few, quite a few tales from the week, which because of my present befuddled brain will not necessarily be in chronological.

Havarna gets Major Air

A kilometre or two down the road from Sestriere is the ski jump used in the 2006 Winter Olympics. When you see these things in the flesh, you realise that ski jumpers must be a very unique group of people. They must be incredibly courageous or quite frankly, totally bonkers!

So, there we are on our little red run, when our lovely instructor Francesca (more about her later), brings the skiing procession to a halt and says, “Who wants a new challenge?” Eleven voices respond with an enthusiastic yes, while at the back, Mr Duff winces at the thought of what he’s going to have to force his ageing and aching limbs through now. Did I tell you I’m a delicate little petal? Well, I am and because my wonderful group of skiers looked after me so well, they have named themselves the Duffodils, which I will use as their group name for now and evermore. So, before we get to the story, here are the Duffodils: Jess, Havarna, Pippa, Charlie, Leo, Jude, Jamie, Will, Joe, Lewis and Seamus.

Anyway, back to the challenge. Francesca says in her intoxicating Italian accent: “Let’s do some jumps!” At this point, I thought to myself, “I think I’ll give this one a miss,” which would have been the sensible thing to do, but as Mrs Duff will gladly tell you, sense of any sort isn’t really my thing. And with the added persuasion of Francesca’s enthusiasm, I couldn’t resist the challenge. Thinking about it is one thing, but doing it is another. Let me be clear before we go any further that what stood before us was nothing like the Olympic ski jump I mentioned earlier, but something more like a bump in the landscape constructed by an over enthusiastic, muscly mole. Still, by the time most of the Duffodils reached this little pimple on the piste, it had grown in our brains to mountainous proportions, causing the brakes to go on snow plough style, so rather than jump, most of us did a little anticlimactic hop. But not Havarna. Oh no. Like one of those fearless jumpers, she went for it, full throttle. The rest of the Duffodils held their breaths… but there was no need. Gracefully, majestically, Havarna soared through the crisp air, saying a quick ‘hi’ to a couple of eagles as she floated on the thermals, before nailing a perfect landing.

So, watch out for future Winter Olympics. Eddie the Eagle is so last century. It’s time for Havarna the Hawk!

Kayla Channels Chumbawamba

Two years ago, while on our skiing trip in Davos, I had one of the most traumatic days of my adult life. After falling over for about the 20th time, my mind and body decided enough was enough and that it was better to stay face-planted in the snow than attempt to get up and try again. That was until Miss Halford’s ski pole was deployed, repeatedly.

“Mr Duff, get up! You’re supposed to be a role model. Show some resilience and teach them how to overcome adversity.”

“I don’t want to be a role model. I want my mummy!” I pathetically pined. Seriously, at that point, I would have been happy to be winched off the mountain, like some beached mass of blubber. Anyway, after a few more moans and groans, I did haul my bulk out of the Mr Duff shaped hole and carry on. It would be great to report that like in some cheesy movie I skied successfully down the mountain, but that would be a lie, and any lying ability I had was deprogrammed on the 4th April 1998 when I married the glorious Mrs D. So, I stumbled down the mountain, eventually deciding the skis were better on my shoulder than on my feet.

So why am I banging on about me when this story is about Kayla. Well, we English teachers like a bit of juxtaposition and antithesis to reveal levels of contrast. And Kayla’s response to adversity was definitely the antithesis (opposite) of my weak, pathetic performance on that day. She got knocked down (see where we’re going here), but she got up again, and again, and again… You get the idea: nothing was going to keep her down. And did she moan and complain like me? Absolutely not. In fact, every time she fell, the smile on her face got wider as she sprang up, ready to go again. The slopes had picked the wrong prey; they were crushed to defeat by the all-conquering Kayla. And me? I just watched in awe as I got taught a lesson in never giving up. You’re never too old to learn - thank you, Kayla.

Seamus is my Wingman

I think this heading could be a bit misleading, but if I said frontman you might think we were in a band or something. Anyone who has heard me murder a tune on my Peppa Pig harmonica, will tell you I’m no musician. See, I’m off again. What I’m trying to say is that Seamus, who had his own demons in the shape of ski poles, was always there with some comforting advice well beyond his years when I had an attack of the jitters at the top of a mountain or when I thought my ageing, aching legs were not quite up to it. Now I’m sure some of this wisdom comes from his parents, but I think we have to thank the Albion the most. Anyone who has to endure some of the highs, but mostly lows of supporting the finest club in the country must develop the ability to spot the tiniest slither of sunlight, even in the darkest of days. Thanks Seamus, and keep the faith: we Baggies will have our day, but please hurry up because I’ve been waiting for 50+ years!

Heartbreak on the Hill

To save any embarrassment, no names will be mentioned here. When teaching Romeo and Juliet, I always stress to classes that we don’t choose who we fall in love with, and often compare the doomed couple’s first meeting with the moment I looked across the smoke-filled bar of The Beehive in Halesowen (it’s a Cooperative now - sacrilege) and gazed upon the majestic splendour of Mrs D for the very first time. Unlike Romeo though, I was a mealy-mouthed, spineless mess, so it was left up to Mrs D to take control, which 35 years later, she is yet to relinquish. Luckily, very luckily for me, it all worked out beautifully, but us battle-hardened lovers know that not every crush ends in firecrackers. No, we know there’s usually a few damp squibs along the way, and it’s a lesson we all need to learn, even if it hurts like hell.

Enter Francesca, our ski instructor, centre stage: kind, caring, funny, encouraging and intelligent (she’s a biologist in Turin). Just an all-round lovely person, the same as her colleague, Aleesia. We were so lucky to have them looking after us.

Now, imagine you’re a teenage boy, miles away from home, and mummy, and this goddess-like person comes into your world. And add to that, she actually talks to you, and genuinely cares about you. Try to imagine the explosion of different emotions in that teen brain. The result? A puppy-like adoration for all things Francesca.

Enter downstage, the villain: Mr Duff. His crime? Sharing numerous chair-lift rides with Francesca, and sometimes Aleesia, too. Imagine the slow puncturing of several cartoon hearts, slowly deflating.

So, these chair-lift rides. Well, we talked about our families, backgrounds, work, education, Brexit, and skiing, of course. So not really villainous at all, your honour. But as far as those crush-ridden Romeos are concerned, I don’t think they’ll ever forgive me.

There is a serious point to this. During our last ski trip, some of our English instructors were less than complimentary about ‘foreign’ instructors, so I think we were a little apprehensive about what our experience would be like. We needn’t have worried. The ski school in Sestriere was founded in 1932 and they really know what they are doing and how to get the best out of their pupils. Francesca, Aleesia, Umberto and Enrico, thank you for teaching and looking after us so well: we will never forget your kindness.

And the broken-hearted boys? They’re over it, and stronger for it, too.

180 Oscar

Unfortunately, the local ice-rink was closed during our stay, but this did not deter one young man from attempting a spinning jump, normally associated with famous figure skaters like John Curry or Robin Cousins (another ageing reference).

Anyway, Oscar, one of our top skiers of the week, seemed to think he had swapped his skis for a pair of ice-skates. So when he took off from a jump, he decided to jazz it up a little bit, or did he? Was he really attempting a toe loop, salchow, lutz, flip, loop, or axel? We think not, neither does Oscar. What we do know is that Oscar discovered that doing a 180 degree turn and landing backwards is never going to end well. And it didn’t. I’m pleased to say that Oscar is fine, but he does need to practise the flourishing, dramatic arms-in-the-air finish of a sequinned clad figure skater.

Jamie’s Jokes (Grimace Now)

What do young skiers do when they’re not skiing?

The watch SkiBeebies!

What do young call two best friends who ski?

Broskis!

Double Acts are Back!

It’s a great British tradition: Morecambe and Wise, The Two Ronnies, French and Saunders, Cannon and Cope, I mean Ball and Little and Large. There’s a new act in town but these guys are not on prime-time Saturday tv. Right now, you can only catch this new sensation on board a coach.

Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to the next generation in coach travel, the chuckling, cheery, nothing-is-too-much-trouble, go way above and beyond, should be used as an example of excellence; any other superlative you can think of for being the Tina Turner’s (simply the best) in coach travel: it’s (drum roll) Cody and Reubyn!

Seriously, these chaps have looked after us so well. Everything they plan and do makes our lives easier. They clearly have a passion for their work and deserve to be recognised for their excellence: thank you, guys; we will miss you but hope that our paths cross on a future adventure.

That’s a Wrap

I’m really sorry that I haven’t been able to include everything, so if I’ve missed one of your stories - apologies. We will reminisce in school.

Now you know, this isn’t quite the end because if you’ve made it this far with me, you’ll have realised by now that I’m a rambler.

It’s been a fantastic week and as ever, Ridgewood students have been a credit to themselves, their parents and carers, and the school. It has been a privilege and a pleasure to spend the week with every single one of them. They may be a little ripe after our long journey home, but please don’t let this put you off giving them a big welcome home and well done hug!

Nearly there. A huge, heartfelt thanks to the Ridgewood team, led by the super-organised Miss Halford, Miss Harper, the most graceful history teacher ever to take to the slopes; Miss I’ve got a pill, lotion, cream, herb for that Jones; Mr all-in-one, best-dressed on the piste Jones, and Miss lunchtime supervisor, soothing sage and team mum Bastock. I really hope we can do this again.

Finally, to you, parents, carers, grandparents, aunties, uncles, pets etc. (we’ve heard so much about you all), thank you for giving your children this fantastic opportunity. And for doing all their dirty washing!

See you all at school on Monday, ready for another great term at Ridgewood.

Best Wishes

Mr Duff

Tom becomes a teen in Sestriere. Lewis the involuntary saviour on the mountain, and Hassan does a ‘bloke look.’

It’s been a packed and eventful couple of days in sunny Sestriere. So much so that I didn’t have time for an update yesterday, so this could be long one. Hold tight - I’ll aim to keep it brief, but if you’ve read any of my previous ramblings you’ll probably realise that brevity is not one of the attributes of my writing. See, I’m away again, like Ronnie Corbett in his chair, sadly without the wit. And again! Get on with it!

Shoulders Droop as Tom Turns Teen

On Monday we celebrated Tom’s 13th birthday and observed the transformation of the once bubbly, bicycling, bouncy haired boy into a slope-shouldered, grouchy teen. Of course we didn’t, although Tom did report feeling a little bit more weight in the shoulders and a strange, stroppy sensation. Tom’s birthday started at 0645 with a frankly criminal rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ on Mr Duff’s Peppa Pig harmonica (don’t ask). He celebrated his special day by moving up a group and is now one of our top skiers - well done, Tom!

At dinner, we all (including the other school in the hotel) sang a proper happy birthday and presented Tom with a cake, candle and card, signed by everyone. Happy Birthday, Tom!

Lewis takes one for the team - well, Jamie.

Now, this is a story involving a skiing injury, but I have been asked by the patient to share his story about the tangling and disentangling of limbs on the mountain. From what I can gather from Jamie it went something like this: he was going fast, way too fast, and doom opened its dark doors, until he saw the saviour, the shining light of salvation, in the form of Lewis. Now Lewis is a lovely, generous guy, but given the opportunity, I’m guessing he would have side-stepped the hurtling rugby playing death hugger zeroing in on him. He didn’t. Have the opportunity. So, a little like the two-become-one moment between Mr Duff and Mr Jones earlier in the week, there was collision of bodies, skis, poles, helmets - you name it, it collided. But this was a far more violent coming together than the graceful Duff & Jones meeting. After, the dust (well, snow really) settled, help arrived to disentangle the limbs, after first establishing which leg or arm belonged to which body.

It was at this point that Jamie realised something wasn’t right with his left leg, which had positioned itself in a rather strange position. This caused a few expletives, polite ones of course. So, poor Jamie was skied off the mountain by the rescue team. He was wrapped up so tightly, he said he felt “like the inside of a sausage roll.” This is the mark of the man. Despite being in pain and now in a leg brace, after receiving very prompt medical attention at the local hospital, he was still cracking jokes. So much so that we will be publishing a daily joke from Jamie. Here’s the first one: What do you call a dog doing ski jumps? …..

Eddie the Beagle! Groan. If you think that’s bad, wait for tomorrow.

The final instalment of this story goes to Jamie’s roommates: Joe, Charlie, Hassan, Raymond and Tom. These boys made sure Jamie was able to have a wash and get comfortable, including putting his socks on for him, helping him back into his leg brace and pretty much attending to his every need. Thanks boys, you really are true friends and we’re very proud of you!

We wish Jamie a very speedy recovery and thank you for being such an excellent role model for our younger students.

Hassan Proves that Men Really are Rubbish at Looking for Stuff.

Whenever I can’t find anything at home, Mrs Duff (she who must be obeyed) always gives me the side-eye before asking if I’ve looked properly and not done a ‘bloke look.’ Of course, I always protest that I have thoroughly searched all possible locations, which usually, actually always, isn’t strictly true. And invariably I am rumbled when she goes straight to a drawer, moves something and then hands me whatever I’m looking for. Now, this is always a little embarrassing but at least it doesn’t involve turning the place upside down, or removing seats from a coach late at night, with the two wonderfully helpful drivers on their hands and knees searching every crevice for a lost air pod, does it Hassan?

So where was this pesky air pod that Hassan claimed had dropped on the floor when he fell asleep and dislodged it when leaning against the window? Come on Hassan, where did the sound come from when you played a track on your phone? Yes, that’s right, it was nestled in your hoodie all the time, wasn’t it?

Thankfully, we all had a good laugh, including the drivers who immediately set to work putting the coach back together. So, the next time Hassan says he’s lost something, it might be an idea to get him to frisk himself before tearing out any furniture.

There’s so much more to report, such as Harvana gets major air, Kayla channels Chumbawumba, Seamus is my wingman; the return of Leo; heartbreak on the hill, and the quiz concludes with some Oscar winning performances… not!

Bye for now.

Mr Duff

Newsflash: Teenagers can get up early! Ridgewood’s own Check-a-Trade man comes to the rescue. Mr Jones traumatised by The Clash. Two become one on the slopes, and why skii forwards, when you can go backwards just as easily? Sestriere launches new support, counselling, anything you want facility, but time is limited because Miss Bastock goes home on Friday.

Something strange happened on Sunday morning, and I mean morning. We’re talking before the crowing of even the most earliest of rising cockerels. Let’s just say that after a 26-hour journey, a frantic fitting of ski equipment, a three course dinner, and the sorting of rooms, it’s fair to say that we were a little bit sceptical about everyone being ready for breakfast at 0715 and then out for 0800. How wrong we were! It turns out that the children did not need the 6.45 knock on the door. In fact, some of them tried to catch some snoozing teachers out by giving their teachers’ doors a good rat-a-tat-tat. But we were all up and ready, honestly! So, a great start to the first day proper, for nearly everyone (see below). To top things off our Year 11- nothing-is-beyond-me Raymond completed a successful repair job on the toilet handle in their bathroom, which seemed to have been the victim of some vigorous flushing. Enough said, but well done, Raymond!

It’s now time to take a moment to think about poor Mr Jones and his stuttering, startling awakening(s). Let me explain. Ridgewood’s very own Action Man (well, that’s what he looked like in his brand new all-in-one ski suit, or maybe more Little Big Man - google it, it was a real 70s action figure. I know, I had one.) has been subjected… Wait, I’ve got carried away with an overlong parenthesis. Let’s start again. Poor Mr Jones has drawn the rooming short straw: he’s with me! Now, as Mrs Duff will happily, actually more angrily, tell you I am not someone who springs out of bed at the first alarm. No, I need coaxing, cajoling and finally cursing before there is any significant movement from the pit. I think it all started when my mum used to try to get me out of bed when I was a troublesome teen. I have a short first name, but boy could she elongate those vowels: “Iain.” 5 minutes later, “Iai:::n.” Repeat for 30 minutes to, “Iai::::::::::::::n!” So my mother alarm clock replacement has got to have some bite, and what better than the opening bars and lyrics to ‘London’s Calling’ by The Clash. When, after about the eighth round of “duh, duh, duh, London’s Calling…” I prised open my bleary eyes, I saw a somewhat stunned looking Mr Jones who’s morning greeting was, “Well, I’m pretty sure I’ve got the lyrics to ‘London’s Calling” permanently pierced into my brain. Poor Mr Jones. Now, how can I ramp this up? Suggestions please.

Enough of me and Mr Jones for the moment. More a bit later - he’s had quite a day.

A new one-stop-shop catering for all your creature comfort needs landed in Sestriere today in the form of our beloved Miss Bastock. By her own admission, Miss B is not one for the slippery slopes, but give her a corner and some students in need of a bit of support and encouragement and she’s in her element. But this is a very exclusive service and open only to Ridgewood students and staff - yes, sometimes we need a bit of that Bastock magic, too. So rest assured, when the skiing gets a bit tough, or we’re just a bit out of sorts, Miss Bastock is there with her soothing words of sense.

Ready for a bit more about Mr Jones’s day? I’ll try and make it brief. And I’m sort of thinking Brief Encounter. Picture the scene: Mr Duff, the ageing, somewhat portly English teacher was smugly making his way up the slopes. I say smugly, but actually it was more relief that I’d remembered the basics in skiing, like stopping and turning. Anyway, what does he see but his room mate, the novice skier Mr Jones sliding out of control on the nursery, that’s NURSERY, slope. Now it’s not very often an English teacher gets the opportunity to lord it a bit over a PE teacher in the sporting world., but that’s not what happened. Actually, what transpired was a beautiful, brief moment of comradeship as Mr Duff caught the panicky PE man in his arms. However, a little later, Mr Duff lamented the missed lording opportunity when, you just knew it, didn’t you, Mr Jones mastered the art of turning, skilfully slaloming around some poles. PE teachers - they’re so annoyingly good at new sports, very quickly: grrrr!

In other news, Mayson in Year 10 has found this skiing lark is all a bit last year, so he’s decided backwards is the new forwards. What twist will this innovator of ancient sports add tomorrow?

That’s all for now. We’ve had a great first day, rounded off with bowling and other games. It’s time to turn in so we can do it all again tomorrow.

Bye for now.

Mr Duff

Greetings from somewhere in sunny - no it really is - France.

Well, we’ve had a great start to our Italian adventure, with only a couple of minor hiccups so far. Where has Charlie’s slider slid to on the coach? It’s ok, he’s got it. And which Year 11 boy is gassing the back row? Again, it’s ok: we are seasoned travellers with teenagers and are armed and ready with the Spring Awakening Febreze.

Right, the black bag: whose is it? So, we are trundling happily towards the ferry when an orange, very, very orange hi-viz cladded official thinks, “They look a bit cheery for midnight in dreary Dover.” Out comes the wand of woe to wave us into the customs shed for a random bag check. Three bags are taken from the hold and held up so the owners can accompany them through the security check. Who knew bags needed chaperones? Anyway, one poor black bag is held up but no-one claims it. The poor thing feels abandoned. You can hear its zip handles sniffling, but still no-one will acknowledge ownership of this poor, stretched-to-its limits quivering piece of canvas. But all is not lost. Because we have a new superhero on board: Mr Jones. Or as he is better known, Captain Carousel: no bag left behind, ever! With the should-be-sainted superhero by its side, the blag back sailed through the x-ray machine, before snuggling back into the hold. I did say I was delirious, didn’t I?

Released from the security shed, we sped towards the ferry, only to see its rear end (the stern, I think) edging away from the dock. At that point, I had a few ideas about what I’d like to do with that man and his wand. Still, every cloud and all that… As our coach swung away from the dock to park up, a heavenly sight emerged from the darkness, well heavenly at 1215 when you’ve just missed the ferry: Burger King!

So, full up and raring to go, we boarded the 0220 ferry for an uneventful crossing, other than for our wonderful students being complimented for their excellent behaviour by a secondary school teacher from Burnley - she was so impressed!On that very high note, I’ll leave it there. All is calm and we’re making good progress through the beautiful French landscape.

Bye for now.

Mr Duff