We Survived The Scariest Teacher Ever!

The Parallel Four Book One Part Nine Chapter Nine

Writing The Parallel Four has been a journey in itself—a walk through memories, dreams, and all the little moments that shape who we become. Some parts of this story are true. Some are truer than I’d care to admit. And some—well, let’s just say they’re inspired by what might’ve happened if life had taken a different turn.

The characters you’ll meet in these pages—Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—are fictional, but they live and breathe with the spirit of real people I’ve known, loved, and lost. Their world is stitched together from scraps of real places, actual events, and a few wild yarns that got better with each retelling down the pub.

Poplar, Hitchin, and the snowy reaches of Sweden aren’t just backdrops—they’re characters in their own right. They’ve shaped this story as much as the people in it. And if you happen to recognise a place, a turn of phrase, or a certain kind of mischief from your own youth… well, consider that my nod to you.

This first book takes us from scraped knees to stolen kisses, from playground politics to life’s first real goodbyes. It’s about growing up, making mistakes, and finding the people who’ll stand by you no matter what—even if they sometimes drive you round the bend.

To those who remember the ‘50s and ‘60s—this one’s a memory jogger. To the younger lot—it’s a peek into a time when life moved slower, but feelings still ran just as fast.

And finally, to Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—six hearts bound by the wonder of first love. Not the fleeting kind that fades with time, but the rare and lasting kind that deepens, steadies, and endures—a love that grows with them, becoming part of who they are, and who they will always be. And though this is only the beginning, the road ahead will test them in ways they cannot yet imagine—through training, through battle, and through the choices that will shape the rest of their lives.

Transcript

The Parallel Four Book One Part Nine

Chapter Nine.

We’d barely had time to shake the sand out of our socks from Sweden before the Big Event loomed over us like a school dinner liver surprise: Grammar School. That was it—no more junior school larks. Nah, now it was Latin verbs, shiny corridors, and the constant threat of detention from someone called “Mr. Vice-Head.”

Johan and I rocked up on Day One lookin’ like two geezers who’d been mugged by a haberdashery. Our new uniforms were so big, you could’ve used mine as a tent in a gale. My blazer flapped like sails on the Cutty Sark, and my tie had wrapped round twice and was still tryin’ to escape down me trousers. We looked like we’d nicked our dads’ Sunday best and hadn’t quite pulled it off.

You could spot the first-years from space. There we were, all knobbly knees, shiny shoes squeakin’ like mice in a church, and collars stiff enough to grate cheese on. We shuffled into the playground with about three hundred other lads, tryin’ not to look like we were moments away from leggin’ it home.

Then out of nowhere, this prefect geezer appeared. Tall as a lamppost, shoulders like a wardrobe, and a prefect badge glintin’ on his blazer like he’d nicked it from a copper. He had that look—you know the one? Like he’d been through two years of Latin and now thought in Roman numerals.

“You first years?” he asked, not so much curious as mildly amused.

We nodded like condemned men at the gallows.

“Good. You lot are the first into assembly. Every Monday. Don’t be late.”

No smile. No joke. Just walked off like he’d said “Nice weather today.” It weren’t a threat, not officially… but let’s just say we didn’t fancy testin’ him.

And so it began—Grammar School, September 1966. A world of Latin verbs, over-polished parquet floors, and older boys who looked like they shaved and paid taxes. And us? We were the fresh meat.

Suddenly, BANG!—a bell went off loud enough to wake every ghost of headmasters past, present, and possibly future. The kind o’ noise that shakes yer fillings loose and has pigeons fallin’ out the rafters. Before we could even twitch, we were herded—yes, herded—into the Great Hall like sheep headin’ for the world’s poshest abattoir.

Now, this place weren’t no ordinary school hall, oh no. It was a cathedral of silence, echoey, gloomy, and colder than a penguin’s handshake. The floor was polished to within an inch of its life, the air smelt of floor wax and ancient fear, and at the far end loomed a stage straight outta some BBC drama.

We were marched down the middle, past rows and rows of older lads who looked like they knew things—Latin things—and were lined up in front of the stage like we was about to be judged by the Ghost of Education Yet to Come.

Sittin’ up there were the staff, all draped in big floaty black academic gowns. Honestly, it looked like a budget Tom Brown’s School Days staff meeting— plenty of stern faces and a general air of “don’t even think about breathing wrong.” In the middle stood a massive wooden lectern that could’ve doubled as a pulpit or possibly a battering ram.

Then he appeared—Professor Schofield himself. Headmaster. Big cheese. The Don of Detentions.

Impeccably dressed in a suit so sharp it probably came with a warning label, he stepped up behind that lectern and raised one hand. Might’ve been a wave. Might’ve been a spell. Hard to tell, really.

And then—SLAM!—the Great Doors behind us shut with a bang that could’ve triggered an avalanche. The hall fell so quiet you could’ve heard a biro squeak.

Professor Schofield’s voice rumbled out like distant thunder—or an angry god who’d swallowed a dictionary.

“Welcome back,” he boomed, with the sort of delivery you’d expect before someone announces a war. Then his eyes found us—the fresh meat.

“You’ve done well to pass the Eleven Plus and earn a place here…” he said, leaning in ever so slightly, “...don’t waste it.”

Mate, we nodded so fast I nearly did meself a neck injury. We looked like one of those car mascots—the little dogs with the bouncy heads. Nobody blinked. Nobody breathed. Even Johan, who once laughed in the face of an Aikido roundhouse, looked like he’d swallowed a hymn book.

He introduced a few teachers next—poor souls looked more nervous than we were—then announced that all us First Years would be staying behind after the others were dismissed.

Ding! went the second bell, soft but final. The older boys stood like soldiers, filed out like shadows, not a word spoken. Not even a whisper. Just the quiet swish of black shoes on polished wood and the shared sense that we’d just been drafted into something big.

As it turned out, Professor Schofield weren’t just your bog-standard headmaster with a fondness for Latin and a hatred of chewing gum—oh no. This geezer was a walking slice of military history, carved outta granite and brewed in strong tea. Before he was commandin’ assemblies, he’d been barkin’ orders in the 1st Battalion of the Hertfordshire Regiment as a Company Sergeant Major, which is basically one rank down from “terrifying demigod.”

He’d kicked off his war career doin’ coastal defence—which, in our young minds, meant patrolling beaches and shoutin’ aggressively at suspicious seagulls. Probably single-handedly scared off a German U-boat with a glare. After that, they shipped him out to Gibraltar, where he no doubt scared the Rock itself into not movin’.

But it was Italy in 1944 where things really got spicy. The man had apparently fought his way north like a human tank fuelled by discipline, beef stew, and a complete absence of mercy. Then, just as the war was windin’ down, he popped over to Syria, landed right in time for VE Day celebrations, and probably refused to take part until someone stood up straight and saluted properly.

When the Battalion was finally disbanded in ’46, most blokes would’ve settled for a quiet life, bit of gardening, long moans about the weather, you know. But not our Professor Schofield. No, he swapped his boots for brogues and retrained as a teacher—’cause clearly terrifying young lads was a transferable skill.

By the time he landed at our Grammar School, he’d turned the place into a well-oiled academic drill hall, and woe betide the boy who turned up late or wore a wonky tie. He had the same effect on students as a sudden bark in a silent room—he didn’t need to shout, mind you. One look from him and you’d be polishing your shoes with fear.

Honestly, if he’d suddenly roared “Drop and give me ten!” that day in the assembly, I reckon every first-year would’ve hit the deck faster than a dodgy deckchair at Southend Pier.

Legend. Terrifying. But somehow… weirdly brilliant.

He wrapped up his welcome speech with a list of stern rules, delivered like he was handin’ down commandments from a granite mountain. Most of ’em boiled down to three things: show up, sit up, and don’t mess up. Pretty straightforward, really.

And just when we thought we were done and dusted, he hit us with the Latin: “Per ardua ad alta!” he barked, chest puffed like he was on parade. Then, in case we all thought he’d sneezed into his gown, he added, “Striving for Excellence.” Mind you, with the way he said it, it might as well’ve meant, “Abandon hope, ye who enter here and tuck in yer shirt.”

With a dramatic sweep of his hand—like Caesar dismissin’ the gladiators—he beckoned four teachers to the front. “These are your form tutors,” he announced. “They’ll now take you to your classrooms and begin shaping you into civilised human beings… hopefully.” The “hopefully” hung in the air like a stray fart in a lift.

Johan and I shot each other a look—equal parts panic and silent prayer—and lo and behold, luck tipped its flat cap in our direction. We were in the same class! Assigned to the mysterious Miss Higgins, whose name sounded wonderfully posh and suspiciously not French, like she might moonlight as a jazz singer or a secret agent. All we knew was: she didn’t look like she took nonsense, and her hair was styled like she’d won a fight with a hairdryer and a pint of hairspray.

Still, better than being separated. And if she was half as terrifying as Professor Schofield, we figured the first lesson would probably be a mix of Shakespeare, sarcasm, and the quiet threat of homework-induced madness.

Miss Higgins swept into the room like a cross between royalty and a particularly strict ballerina—chin up, back straight, eyes that could curdle milk. She had that certain something, you know—like she’d walked straight outta a Parisian fashion magazine and into our grotty little classroom by mistake. I half expected her to light a cigarette and declare us all uncultured peasants.

She was to be our French teacher, naturally. One look at her and you just knew she was the type who buttered both sides of her baguette and owned at least three silk scarves with mysterious stains from fine wine and existentialism. Her accent was the kind that made even the word “poubelle” (bin) sound romantic, which was impressive considering it usually described what Johan’s schoolbag smelt like.

She looked mid-forties-ish, though in that ageless, “I moisturise with melted diamonds” sort of way. Her hair was a perfectly executed perm—so rigidly structured it probably had its own timetable—and her complexion looked like she holidayed exclusively in the south of France, possibly while riding horseback and sipping rosé.

Her presence alone screamed, “I could conjugate irregular verbs, critique your handwriting, and fix your slouch—all before the bell rings.” Naturally, Johan and I made a beeline for the front row. We were keen, see—eager young minds ready for a continental adventure. Also, we hadn’t yet figured out the golden rule of classroom survival: never sit where the teacher can make direct eye contact for extended periods.

From our front-row thrones, we watched her write “Bonjour la classe” across the blackboard in the sort of looping, effortless script that made my English handwriting look like it had been scrawled by a mildly concussed raccoon. She turned and smiled—not warmly, mind you, more like the Mona Lisa on inspection duty—and said, “We will start with the alphabet, en français.”

I looked at Johan, he looked at me, and we both silently agreed: this was gonna be a very interesting year.

Johan and I started Grammar School with nerves jangling like a Morris dancer in a lightning storm—new blazers, new teachers, and sixth formers with sideburns so long they looked like they were auditioning for Z Cars. We weren’t exactly trembling in our socks, but we did spend the first few mornings scanning the corridors for bullies, detention slips, and anything labelled “Latin Club.”

By the end of week one though, we’d clocked it: nothing to worry about. In fact, we were doing just fine—top third of the class, maybe even top five if you ignored the lads who thought Shakespeare was a brand of trousers. Not that we bragged, mind. Well… only to each other, and only when no one else was listening.

We stuck together like gravy on a Sunday shirt—same classes, same table, same dodgy packed lunches. We moved through lessons in perfect sync, a sort of academic double-act. Think Morecambe and Wise, but with homework and an unnatural fear of algebra. Honestly, I was probably closer to Johan than I was to my own brother Tim, not least because Johan never tried to boot my shins under the dinner table or claim I’d let the cat in during a thunderstorm. Plus, he didn’t smell faintly of crisps.

Miss Higgins, bless her well-moisturised soul, started us off with a timetabling masterclass—spoken entirely in a French accent smoother than a silk cravat on Bastille Day. She made double maths sound like a candlelit dinner. But don’t be fooled—Monday mornings hit harder than a misjudged rugby tackle.

Double English to start, where we picked apart sentences until even the full stops begged for mercy. Then straight into double maths, where Mr Harbottle delivered equations with all the warmth of a tax inspector. By breaktime, most of the first-years looked ready to hand in their resignations.

Next up was Geography—one period before lunch, one after. A suspicious schedule, if you ask me. Someone in the timetabling office clearly had a thing for ordnance survey maps and water cycles.

Then came double German with Frau Klein, who could roll her Rs with enough force to start a small avalanche. We learnt to count, greet, and—most importantly—discuss sausages. Johan found great joy in muttering “Wurst ist Wurst” under his breath during roll call. I nearly snorted my pencil.

The day wrapped with double history, where we hit the Peninsular Wars like two lads who’d just discovered Wellington wasn’t just a type of boot. It had everything: muskets, moustaches, heroic last stands, and generals with names longer than the Thames. We were absolutely hooked. If there’d been a club for Napoleonic reenactments, we’d have signed up on the spot—though probably with sticks for muskets and crisps for rations.

Tuesdays were less of a school day and more of a cultural rollercoaster with a side of emotional whiplash. We kicked off with double French, Miss Higgins floating into the classroom like a continental breeze with verb tables. She was in her element, firing off vocabulary like a stylish machine gun—“Je vais, tu vas, il va!”—and somehow making the future tense sound like a fashion forecast. Johan and I did our best to keep up, nodding along like a pair of polite baguettes.

Then came double English literature, where we dove headfirst into metaphorical oceans and tried to sound deep while secretly hoping the next poem involved pirates or a swordfight. Alas, most of it was about flowers, sorrow, or tragic weather. We did our best to look thoughtful, scribbling notes and occasionally underlining dramatic lines like “the wind wept across the moor.” I wasn’t entirely sure what a moor was, but I was convinced it needed a jumper.

Next up, Latin. Just one period before lunch, a linguistic warm-up, like stretching before a marathon of confusion. It felt like trying to solve a crossword with a dictionary written by Julius Caesar. “Amo, amas, amat,” the teacher intoned, as if it were a sacred chant. “I love, you love, he/she/it loves…” which was all very lovely until someone misdeclined a noun and accidentally proposed marriage to a desk.

After lunch, we faced the real boss level: Latin with Professor Schofield. He entered the room like he was inspecting the troops at Monte Cassino. His Latin didn’t flow—it thundered. Conjugations were barked. Eye contact was dangerous. And anyone who confused a gerund with a gerbil was swiftly put in their place. We sat bolt upright, chanting our declensions like terrified monks. Johan once dropped his pencil mid-declension and didn’t dare pick it up till the bell rang.

Then, like a sudden shift in programming, we had double General Science. Test tubes. Bunsen burners. Mysterious substances in jars with faded labels that might’ve been older than the janitor. One lad tried to light a Bunsen burner and accidentally set fire to his tie. We all learned something that day—mainly, don’t lean in while turning the gas on.

But the real twist came at the end: double music and ballroom dancing. I’m not kidding. It was like someone in the timetable department had given up and decided, “Let’s see what happens.”

Enter Mr Harris, former British and World Ballroom Champion, striding in like he’d just descended from a glitterball. Johan and I exchanged a look of pure panic. “Dancing? With steps? In front of people?!”

But then came the bombshell: girls. Yes, actual, real-life girls—from the Girls’ Grammar just half a mile down the road. You’d think that close range would make ‘em less mysterious, but no—they swept in like a delegation from St Trinian’s, all confidence, sharp looks, and hair that defied gravity. Rumour had it they could recite Shakespeare, fix a broken Bunsen burner, and take down a boy with nothing but a flick of an eyebrow. First week, they came to us—paraded into the main hall like it was the blooming peace talks. Second week, we’d be walkin’ over to their turf—enemy territory in sensible shoes and suspicious blazers. Suddenly, ballroom dancing didn’t seem so daft. In fact, it started to look like a tactical necessity.

Mr Harris’s wife, Mrs Harris, taught the girls’ class, and together they were like Fred and Ginger with lesson plans. The first class was awkward beyond belief. Boys on one side, girls on the other, all shuffling about like we were about to negotiate a truce rather than dance. Touching hands was treated with the same caution as handling uranium.

But the Harrises were pros. Within a couple of lessons, we were gliding around to waltzes, box steps, and even the foxtrot. Johan and I didn’t exactly become ballroom legends, but we did stop stepping on people. And honestly, it was kind of brilliant. After all, algebra never helped anyone win over a crowd, but knowing how to quickstep without tripping over your own blazer? That’s a life skill.

We’d been briefed extensively by Miss Higgins and Mr Harris beforehand. “Be polite,” they said. “Be charming,” they said. “Represent your school with grace and dignity,” they said. No pressure, then. We’d polished our shoes, combed our hair like we were meeting royalty, and tried to look taller without standing on tiptoe.

The coach ride over was filled with nervous banter, a lot of “Don’t say anything stupid,” and someone at the back practising his bow like we were headed for tea with the Queen. Johan and I mostly stared out the window trying not to sweat through our shirts. This was our first proper appearance at the Girls’ Grammar School, and word had it they were very proper. Frighteningly clever. Impossibly elegant. And, most terrifying of all—completely unimpressed by boys.

The bus hissed to a halt outside their immaculate red-brick building like a dramatic pause in a radio play. We filed off with as much composure as a gang of mildly terrified meerkats, clutching our dance shoes and dignity.

That composure lasted precisely four seconds.

Because as we stepped onto the grand stone steps of the entrance hall—Johan tripped over his own laces and cannoned into me, sending us both tumbling through the double doors like we were auditioning for a slapstick comedy. I tried to recover by straightening up and doing a small, polite bow… and headbutted a coat hook.

A coat hook, for heaven’s sake.

One of the Girls’ Grammar prefects—impossibly tall, with hair like a shampoo advert—looked at us over her clipboard and said in a tone of mild concern, “Are you alright, or do you always arrive like that?”

We considered dying of embarrassment on the spot, but chose instead to mumble something about “a strong headwind” and limped down the corridor with as much dignity as two lads who’d just face-planted into the Girls’ Grammar foyer could muster.

Things didn’t get much smoother in the dance hall.

We were lined up across from the girls like two opposing armies in a Regency drama, both sides stiff and silent. Mr Harris, ever the optimist, clapped his hands and said, “Right then, shall we warm up with the cha-cha?” He made it sound like a jolly game of charades, rather than an emotional gauntlet of adolescent awkwardness.

We were paired off randomly. My partner was a girl named Lorna who looked as though she’d rather have been partnered with a cactus. She was graceful, composed, and clearly knew every step. I, on the other hand, was sweating through my collar and clinging to the desperate hope I wouldn’t accidentally spin us both into the radiator.

Johan fared little better—his partner was so tall he looked like he was dancing with a slightly disappointed aunt.

Still, once the music kicked in and our feet more or less remembered what they were doing, the mood started to lift. Lorna stopped looking like she was in physical pain. I stopped apologising every five seconds. And Johan only stepped on his partner three times (a personal best).

By the end of the session, there were even smiles. Real ones. The Harrises gave us an approving nod. Mr Harris whispered, “Well done, lads. And no bleeding—bonus points.”

We left the Girls’ Grammar in a slightly better state than we arrived—heads a little higher, knees a little less wobbly. And as we climbed back onto the bus, Johan turned to me and said, “Next week, I’m triple-knotting my laces.”

I replied, “Next week, I’m avoiding the coat hooks.”

Wednesdays were what you might call “educational mayhem with a timetable.” Whoever scheduled it clearly had a flair for drama, explosions, and grass stains—and honestly, we loved them for it.

The day kicked off with double Physics, which mostly involved watching our teacher, Mr Franklin, try to survive another lesson without being blown up by his own enthusiasm. He once accidentally set fire to his notes during a demo on combustion and calmly batted the flames out with a copy of The Times, muttering, “Controlled burn, lads. Nothing to worry about.” We adored him. Physics became our favourite form of chaos.

After that came double Biology, where we graduated from drawing amoebas to dissecting things that used to move. There were frog legs, sheep hearts, and something that might have been a squid or possibly just Tuesday’s dinner. We pulled on our lab coats like tiny mad scientists and did our best not to faint or flick anything across the room. I mean, Johan once managed to ping a piece of something into a microscope, and the poor lad at the next table hasn’t looked at jelly the same way since.

Then came Debating, where we could shout at each other with permission. Our teacher, Mrs Hawkins, gave us topics like “Should school uniforms be abolished?” or “Do aliens exist?” or “Was Napoleon just short or misunderstood?” Johan had a knack for logic. I had a knack for making people laugh. Together, we were like a two-boy debating wrecking crew, able to argue both sides of an issue just for fun—especially if someone mentioned football, which always led to a riot (and possibly a few bruised egos).

But it was the afternoon timetable that made Wednesdays legendary.

Double Drama with Mr Clements was a gift from the heavens. He encouraged everything from Shakespearean sword fights to full-blown slapstick. He once let us stage a silent play about two rival ice cream vendors, which somehow ended with the entire cast locked in a freezer (Johan and I were proud of that one). We could bellow, stagger, collapse, and overact to our hearts’ content without anyone telling us to pipe down.

And then came the crown jewel:

Treble Rugby.

That’s right—three periods of full-contact glory.

Johan was our fly-half (Number 10), cool under pressure, great with the boot, and brilliant at directing play. I was scrum-half (Number 9), darting about like a caffeinated meerkat, yelling instructions I hoped someone was listening to, and feeding the scrum like my life depended on it. We could both swap to full-back (15) if needed—kicking, catching, and counter-attacking like mini Trevor Wintle, England scrum half.

There were a few other lads from our rugby club on the team, which meant we had a solid backbone, a bit of flair, and just the right amount of mischief to make training fun and matches explosive. We tackled like demons, ran like we were being chased by homework, and treated every game like the Five Nations.

Come summer term, rugby gave way to athletics—less mud, more sweat. Johan excelled at sprinting, while I took to distance running with the stubbornness of someone too proud to stop. We tried every event from javelin (which Johan nearly flung onto the tennis courts) to long jump (which I mistimed and landed in the middle of the rake). It was glorious, exhausting, and occasionally embarrassing—but always fun.

Thursdays, on the other hand, began with the academic equivalent of a lukewarm cup of tea: Religious Studies with Miss Vickers.

Now, Miss Vickers wasn’t mean, per se—just chronically monotone. She spoke in a voice that suggested she’d once fallen asleep during her own lesson and no one had the heart to wake her. Every parable was delivered like a weather report from 400 BC. Even the story of Moses parting the Red Sea came across like someone folding a towel. Johan and I didn’t hate the class—we were far too polite for that—we just... endured it. With reverence, of course.

Naturally, being the cheeky-but-charming scholars we were, we asked questions—often excellent ones like:

“Miss, if Jonah was inside a whale for three days, wouldn’t it have smelt awful?”

Or:

“If God created the world in six days, did he outsource the paperwork?”

Miss Vickers would blink slowly behind her spectacles, purse her lips, and give a sigh that said: “Why me?” But we were never rude—just... inquisitive. Very, very inquisitive.

Thankfully, salvation came quickly in the form of Woodwork and Metalwork, which were exactly what they sound like: glorious, noisy, practical lessons where you could hit things with hammers and not get detention. We donned our overalls like battlefield armour and marched into the workshops ready to construct questionable bookends and terrifying toast racks.

Johan took to woodwork like a Viking to a longboat. He had a good eye and a steady hand, while I mostly tried not to glue my fingers together or accidentally create a lethal weapon. Metalwork was even better—hotter, louder, and full of potential disasters. The sound of someone dropping a lump of steel on the floor was enough to wake half the science block.

After lunch, we floated into double French, where Miss Higgins was back in her element, swishing around the classroom with all the style of a Parisian spy. Our brains, slightly softened by sawdust and enthusiasm, did their best to conjugate verbs while Miss Higgins waved her arms dramatically and reminded us that “le fromage est sur la table” was not, in fact, an excuse to throw cheese at anyone.

Next came double History, which was always brilliant—filled with revolutions, empires, and characters who made today’s politicians look like sulky toddlers. We were in the middle of Napoleon’s campaigns by this point, and Johan had taken to doing terrible French accents every time his name came up. (“I am zee emperor, non?”) I retaliated with a dramatic Wellington impression involving a lot of muttering and maps.

And finally—Debating, Round Two.

Led by none other than Professor Schofield himself.

Now, if debating with Mrs Hawkins was a lively after-school chat, debating with the professor was like stepping into the House of Commons during a thunderstorm. He ran the session with military efficiency, booming across the classroom like he was commanding a regiment. Every point had to be backed up, every rebuttal sharp, and heaven help you if you mumbled. But under all that discipline was a man who loved a good argument. He’d raise an eyebrow, give you just enough rope to hang your logic with, and then nod approvingly when you got your point across.

Johan and I thrived in these sessions. We loved the thrill of standing up, laying out our arguments, and trying not to accidentally compare Henry VIII to a hedgehog (again). The debates were fast, fierce, and fantastic. A perfect way to end the day: full of fire, facts, and the occasional French Napoleon impression when Professor Schofield wasn’t looking.

Fridays, oh Fridays—they were the Cadbury’s Selection Box of school days.

A bit of everything: cultured, chaotic, and delightfully covered in oil.

We kicked things off with double German, where we’d progressed from angry lists of verbs to full-blown conversations. You know you’re getting somewhere when you can confidently insult your best mate’s grammar and order two slices of cake in the same sentence. Johan particularly enjoyed asking for “ein Stück Apfelkuchen, bitte,” while I cheekily corrected his accent with, “It’s Stück, not schtook, mate.” Our teacher, Herr Meier, was a wonderfully dry chap with an unfortunate resemblance to a strudel. He once joked that Johan and I could argue fluently in three languages and get detention in all of them. A proud moment.

Then came double Art, where we were supposed to explore expressionism and watercolours, but Johan and I mostly painted tanks, rugby matches, and one memorable mural of Napoleon playing cricket. The art teacher, Miss Flax, said we had “enthusiasm.” Which is art-teacher speak for “At least it’s not stick figures this week.”

After art, we slid gracefully into English Literature, perfect for daydreaming while staring at metaphors we barely understood. There’s only so many times you can pretend a cloud symbolises the fragility of mankind before someone calls your bluff. Still, it was peaceful, poetic even—and we did manage to find deep meaning in a poem about cows once, mostly by accident.

Lunch, naturally, involved us racing to the front of the queue, stuffing our faces with spotted dick and custard, and then dashing back to class still chewing. Because what came next was serious business.

English Language.

Spelling tests. Comprehension. The dreaded semi-colon.

Our teacher, Mrs Wiggins, was as sharp as her red pen and had a sixth sense for spotting split infinitives. She once described my handwriting as “what happens when a spider learns to fence,” but she liked us because we participated—and because we made her laugh (usually on purpose).

And then…

Ah yes. The main event.

Treble Motor Mechanics.

Three full periods of glorious, greasy, glorious tinkering.

Johan and I practically galloped to the workshop like a pair of oil-thirsty thoroughbreds.

And there she was—Mrs Horsefield. The undisputed monarch of Mechanics, the Grand Duchess of Gears, and the only teacher who could silence a room full of teenage boys with a single raised spanner.

She loved us.

Possibly because we didn’t set fire to anything.

Possibly because we once fixed the workshop sink using nothing but a jubilee clip and a lot of hope.

Our project that term?

Restoring a police-issue Velocette motorbike.

An absolute beauty, even in its rust-speckled, dented glory.

We fell in love instantly—me with the carburettor, Johan with the kickstart, and both of us with the dream of one day roaring off into the sunset on matching Velo twins.

But it wasn’t just the bike.

It was Mrs Horsefield herself.

A woman who had, as we later found out, lived a life more exciting than any James Bond film.

She’d served in the ATS during the war as a despatch rider—bombs falling, tyres screeching, navigating blacked-out lanes with nothing but guts and goggles. She’d trained as a mechanic, taught tank maintenance, and once (allegedly) fixed a gearbox with a hairpin and a chocolate wrapper. After the war, she earned a degree in engineering and still found time to teach sprocket-obsessed lads like us.

She could hold a socket wrench in one hand and a perfectly brewed cuppa in the other.

She could weld and do stand-up comedy—at the same time.

And she had stories—brilliant, bonkers stories.

About outrunning military trucks.

About replacing an engine mid-blizzard.

About once teaching Winston Churchill’s driver how to reverse uphill without stalling.

Johan and I hung on every word, every lesson, every laugh.

If the Navy had given her a destroyer, she’d have tuned the engine herself and painted it British racing green.

Fridays ended with oily fingernails and wide grins, as we packed away our tools, wiped down the Velocette, and promised ourselves we’d finish it before the end of the year.

So yeah… by the time the final bell rang, we weren’t just ready for the weekend.

We were ready to take on the world—with a spanner in one hand and a semi-colon in the other.

To help us survive the early days of accidental wanderin’, Miss Higgins—bless her sensible shoes—gave us the grand tour of the place, proper Queen of the Corridors she was. “This one’s Maths,” she’d say, tappin’ on the door like she owned the joint, “and that’s History—mind the creaky floorboard, loves.” She did her best to make it all sound jolly and straightforward, but to us lot it might as well have been the map to El Dorado.

See, in Junior School, we’d spent most of our days welded to the same desk, like limpets in short trousers. Suddenly we’re expected to gallop from one end of the building to the other, dodging sixth formers and the odd rogue dinner trolley, all while tryin’ to remember if German was next to Geography or upstairs by the loos.

First couple of weeks were absolute carnage. Got lost more times than I care to admit. Took a wrong turn once and ended up in the staff room—door swung open, and there they were, all the teachers loungin’ about with their feet up, cups of tea in hand, lookin’ like we’d just walked into the lion’s den. Didn’t half scar me for life, that did.

But we got the hang of it, me and Johan. Took a bit of trial, a fair bit of error, and some very creative excuses for lateness, but by the end of term, we could leg it from Latin to Metalwork quicker than a ferret up a trouser leg. I reckon we could’ve done it blindfolded if someone dared us—and you know what, someone probably did.

I survived my first term at Grammar School far better than expected—came out the other end with all limbs attached, sanity mostly intact, and dignity... well, let’s call it marginally dented. I even managed to rack up a tidy stash of House Points, which felt like collectin’ invisible gold stars for bein’ vaguely competent and not settin’ anything on fire.

Most importantly, I dodged the big one—detention. Just the thought of bein’ kept back after school filled me with proper existential dread. Not ’cause I was scared of the teachers—though some of ’em could curdle milk with a look—but because it’d eat into my precious car-washin’ business hours. Suds and sponges don’t wait for dawdlers, mate. There were Fords and Cortinas cryin’ out for a good shine, and I wasn’t about to let a missed Latin translation cost me a sixpence.

So I kept me nose clean. Johan and I stuck to a rigid after-school routine: homework first, fun second, all done with military precision. Not that I was tryin’ to be some goody two-shoes, mind you. I just liked things ticked off and tidy. If I didn’t hit my own targets, I’d sulk like a Victorian schoolmistress denied her afternoon tea.

And anyway, gettin’ the homework done meant the teachers left you alone—no naggin’, no glares, no “see me after class.” More time for actual breathin’. And more importantly, more time for buckets, soap, and a nice shiny bonnet reflectin’ the sunset like a trophy.

One of our favourite lessons—shockin’ as it sounds—was Latin. Yep, Latin. The deadest of dead languages. The very thing that brought chit-chat in Ancient Rome to a screechin’ halt. But somehow, we took to it like ducks to conjugatin’. Probably helped that our school motto, Per ardua ad alta—“Strivin’ for Excellence,” though most of us were just strivin’ to stay awake—was in Latin too. Seemed only polite to understand what we were allegedly marchin’ towards.

Now, Professor Schofield looked like the sort of bloke who could wrestle a bear before breakfast and still be home in time for a boiled egg. But underneath that exterior—shoulders like paving slabs, voice like gravel—he was one of the best. Proper presence, that man. Could silence a rowdy classroom with nothin’ more than a raised eyebrow. Magic, it was. Hypnotic, almost. We gave him respect in bucketloads, shovelfuls, maybe even truckloads if the lesson was particularly tricky.

We took Latin seriously—not just ’cause it sounded posh and made us feel like young scholars from Tom Brown’s School days-on-a-budget, but ‘cause it actually helped. Modern languages, biology, even just bluffin’ our way through homework—we owed a lot to amo, amas, amat.

And then there was Ingrid. Unofficial class editor, linguistic watchdog, and all-round grammar ninja. She’d cast her eagle eyes over our Latin, French, and German before we dared hand it in. Thanks to her ruthless red pen and knack for spotting a dodgy declension at twenty paces, our grades stayed well clear of disaster.

Mind you, we weren’t the only ones with a flair for tongues. Quite a few in our year had travelled a bit—army kids, embassy types, mysterious polyglots who slipped between languages like they were changin’ shirts. Made the whole thing delightfully competitive. Let’s just say, bein’ top of the class in Latin felt a bit like winnin’ the Five Nations—if the Five Nations was fought over verb endings and the accusative case.

In English Literature, we had the pleasure of studying that charming bedtime story known as One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey—a jolly little number set in a psychiatric hospital, stuffed to the rafters with institutional misery, psychological arm-wrestling, and the warm, fuzzy glow of despair. Not exactly Wind in the Willows, is it?

I powered through it once on my own, just to get the gist—something about rebellion, electroshock therapy, and a nurse who could probably curdle concrete with a glance. Then I paid a bit more attention in class when we went over it line by line, pickin’ apart every sentence like trainee therapists lookin’ for hidden trauma.

A few years later, in ’75, I saw the film version at the cinema. Two hours and change of emotionally intense actin’, haunted stares, and enough heavy symbolism to sink a barge. Walked out of that theatre feelin’ like I’d been hit over the head with a psychology textbook and needed a nice lie down and a cuppa.

Thankfully, we also got to read Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four—both by George Orwell and much more my speed. You can’t go wrong with pigs in power and dystopian nightmares where the government watches you brush your teeth. Now that’s quality literature. At least with Orwell, you knew where you stood: somewhere bleak, grey, and politically dodgy—but with proper plots and a decent metaphor.

We were still lovin’ life down at Sea Cadets, climbing the ranks one neatly polished boot at a time. Felt like real progress, that—badges, promotions, the lot. Some evenings were all full-on military chic: Number Ones on, drill practice in the car park, and a whole lot of “left, right, left” while tryin’ not to trip over your own shiny shoes. We looked like miniature naval officers who’d taken a wrong turn on the way to Trafalgar.

Other nights were a bit more relaxed—Number Eight working dress, the sort that usually ended up soaked, muddy, or mysteriously covered in boot polish. There was always a rope involved, or a bucket, or an instructor shoutin’ because someone (usually me) was standin’ on the wrong bit of the floor. It was organised chaos, but we loved it.

One of the highlights that year was when the unit sorted out a block booking at the Odeon to watch The Yangtze Incident. A whole cinema trip, in uniform no less. We marched the mile and a half from the unit to the theatre like the most determined popcorn-hunters in naval history—swaggerin’ down the street like we were off to retake Singapore, but really just hopin’ they’d let us bring in our own sweets.

The film was being re-shown in the lead-up to Remembrance Sunday, and since our unit was named after HMS Amethyst, the instructors figured it’d give us a good dose of pride, history, and a crash course in how not to handle a river ambush.

It was a belter of a story, too. Back in ’49, HMS Amethyst, a British frigate—F116, for the rivet-counters—was sailin’ down the Yangtze when she got well and truly stitched up by Communist Chinese forces. They opened fire from the banks like it was Guy Fawkes Night with attitude. Nearby ships—Consort, London, Black Swan—all tried to help but got sent packing by a mixture of artillery, bureaucracy, and, I imagine, some colourful naval language not fit for polite company.

It had the feel of one of those doomed school group projects, where everyone’s got good intentions, no one has a plan, and things go off the rails by lunchtime—only with actual explosions.

With rescue well and truly off the table, the Amethyst’s captain had no choice but to go full James Bond meets Royal Navy—plotting a daring escape under cover of darkness. No gadgets, no tuxedos, just grit, nerves of steel, and a slightly shot-up frigate limping its way downriver to Shanghai. They finally made it to Hong Kong, battered, bruised, and looking like they’d been through ten rounds with history itself—but still afloat, still proud, and still flying the White Ensign like heroes.

The film had us gripped. Intense, dramatic, and about as British as a cup of tea during a thunderstorm. It wasn’t just a cracking watch—it was a proper history lesson, the sort that gets under your skin. Even the lads who usually nodded off the moment anything educational crept onto a screen were wide-eyed and glued to the action from start to finish.

By the time we lined up for the Remembrance parade later that week, we all stood that bit taller—backs straighter, chests out, and the faint whiff of Odeon popcorn still clingin’ to our Number Ones. We weren’t just playin’ at being sailors anymore. For a brief moment, we felt it—the courage, the legacy, the whole lot. And that, more than any textbook or marching drill, stuck with us.

It was a cold, wet Sunday morning—the kind of damp that doesn’t just nip at your ears, it slithers down your collar and settles in like it’s paid rent. And there we were: Sea Cadets standing to attention in perfectly straight, slightly shivering ranks for the Remembrance Service.

I glanced down and couldn’t help but admire the row of toe caps stretched out before us—gleamin’ like polished black jelly beans on parade. Every single pair had been buffed to within an inch of their lives the night before. We’d scrubbed, shined, and elbow-greased until we could just about see our own terrified faces reflectin’ back. Pride, as they say, was stitched into every seam of our Number Ones. You could smell the boot polish and ambition.

Johan looked like a young admiral in training—chin up, chest out, and eyes sharp. He’d been picked to escort the Colours that year, which is both a proper honour and a prime opportunity to completely stuff it up in front of half the town. I said a silent prayer to the ghost of Lord Nelson, askin’ him kindly to keep the halyard from tangling round the flagpole like last year’s tragic laundry incident. Dignity’s hard to recover when you’ve got your national standard twisted up like a pair of knotted knickers.

One thing that’s always got on my nerves: people flying the Union Flag upside down. Happens all the time—sporting events, royal occasions, jubilee knees-ups—you name it. Some poor soul grabs a flag from the nearest petrol station, waves it about like they’ve just personally seen off Napoleon, and there it is, upside down for all the world to see. Bit of basic flag etiquette, that, and yet still a mystery to half the country.

Thankfully, no such crimes against vexillology occurred at our ceremony. Johan handled the unfurling like a seasoned pro—crisp, dignified, not a tangle in sight. You could’ve filmed it and stuck it in a recruitment video. I gave a little internal cheer when the halyard didn’t wrap itself round the pole like it was auditioning for a maypole dance.

Then the bugler stepped forward and played The Last Post—that haunting call that seems to hang in the air long after the notes are gone. The ranks fell silent. Not your average classroom quiet, either. This was proper, heavy, weight-of-history silence. Just a couple of stifled coughs and one awkward sneeze that tried very hard to blend in.

I stood to attention, let the cold sink into my neck and didn’t flinch. There’s somethin’ about that stillness—two minutes where even the pigeons seem to pause—that always gets me. A lump rose in my throat, the kind you can’t swallow down no matter how much you try to think about anything else. Rugby scores. Dinner. That time I accidentally glued my fingers together. Nothing worked. Because in that moment, it wasn’t just silence—it was memory, sacrifice, and the quiet ache of all the people who aren’t standin’ in line with you.

As I scanned the crowd, my eyes landed on Miss Higgins, standing quietly among the civilians, poppy pinned to her coat and her usual composed expression firmly in place—chin slightly raised, eyes steady, the sort of poise that could silence a room without so much as a word.

During the wreath-laying, she stepped forward. No fuss, no grand gesture—just calm and deliberate, as if she’d done it a hundred times. But as she turned to step back, I caught a glimpse of something that made me do a double take: a neat little row of medals, pinned just above her poppy. Her medals.

Not decorative. Not borrowed. Real ones.

Now, I’d always had the feeling there was more to Miss Higgins than met the eye—she had that quiet steel under the polished vowels and perfect posture. But in that moment, standing there with the wind catching the edge of her coat, I realised there was a whole side to her none of us had ever seen. A story tucked away behind the classroom walls and conjugated French verbs. A story that maybe—just maybe—involved war work, courage, and secrets that had never made it into the school newsletters.

I stood there like a statue, the bugle still echoing in my ears, wondering what she’d done to earn those medals… and why none of us had ever thought to ask.

I wasn’t exactly in a rush to head home after the parade. There wasn’t much waitin’ for me there—just the looming threat of another domestic World War III if my dad happened to drop by and start another skirmish with Mum over something deeply offensive, like the way she made tea. No rugby match on the calendar to burn off the tension, and knockin’ on doors asking, “’Scuse me, fancy a car wash?” felt a bit off on a day meant for national reflection.

So I tagged along with Johan and followed him back to Cadet HQ, where the mood had softened and the refreshments were flowin’—tea, coffee, port, and rum. Because nothin’ says “well done, lads” quite like a biscuit and a cheeky tot in the mess hall.

I’d barely stepped through the door when a firm hand landed on my shoulder and spun me round like I’d just been called up for inspection. One of the instructors—face like a walnut and eyes sharp as bayonets—thrust a tray into my hands and said, “Good lad—start serving tea.”

Just like that, I’d been promoted from parade participant to temporary tea boy in under five seconds flat. No ceremony, no warning—just a tray, a mission, and the knowledge that if I spilled anything on the CO’s boots, my Sea Cadet career might end in a mug-shaped disgrace.

Spotting Miss Higgins in the crowd, I made a beeline for her, balancing a proper cuppa on my tray—milk in first, obviously, I’m not an animal. She took it with a graceful nod, and before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out: “I noticed your medals.”

I tried to sound casual, like I wasn’t completely starstruck—but who was I kidding? My voice cracked halfway through like I was eight again.

She looked at me over the rim of her cup—calm, poised, eyes sharp as ever—and said, with the kind of quiet confidence that makes the hairs on your neck stand up, “I was in the Special Operations Executive during the war.”

I just stood there, gobsmacked. The SOE? The wartime spies? The ones who blew up train lines and parachuted into enemy territory with nothing but a silk map and nerves of steel? I mean, I always knew there was something different about her, something fierce beneath the tweed and the perfect pronunciation—but that?

She smiled—just a hint of mischief behind it—and said, “Maybe one day I’ll tell you more. But not today.” Then she gave me a polite nod, thanked me for the tea, and disappeared into the crowd like a mystery wrapped in Harris tweed and understatement.

I legged it across the hall and grabbed Johan. Told him everything in a breathless whisper. He nearly dropped his tea on his boots. We just stood there, trying to process it all, both of us grinning like idiots.

From that day on, French class took on a whole new dimension. Because now, every time Miss Higgins said “Résistance”, we wondered if she was speaking from experience.

Later on, I got chatting to an elderly gentleman with more medals than buttons on his blazer—proper military fruit salad, gleaming in the hall lights. Turned out he was a former paratrooper, and in the most casual tone imaginable, he mentioned he’d jumped into France near Pegasus Bridge on D-Day.

Pegasus Bridge! Actual history-book stuff. The kind of thing we’d studied in school, black-and-white photos and dusty textbook captions—only now I was standing face to face with someone who’d been there.

He spoke with quiet pride, like a man who didn’t need to raise his voice because the truth was loud enough. And I listened, properly listened, with wide-eyed awe. Two hours and several cups of tea later, he was still going strong—telling me about glider landings in the dark, firefights in hedgerows, and rations so dense they could’ve stopped a tank dead in its tracks. I was hanging on every word, trying to soak it all in like I could bottle the stories for later.

I wasn’t old enough to serve him a tot of rum myself—rules and all that—but one of the instructors had clearly been eavesdropping (as all good instructors do), and quietly slipped away. A few minutes later, he came back with a wink and a dusty bottle of rum from behind the bar. “For later, sir,” he said, handing it over like it was a medal of its own.

It was one of those moments that gets stitched into your memory without you realising. A day of medals, memories, and mugs of tea strong enough to put hair on your chest—and maybe a few tears in your eyes, too.

When the last visitor had drained the final drop of tea and shuffled out of the drill hall, Johan and I made our quiet escape back to his place. We peeled off our Number Ones like snakes shedding their shiny, slightly itchy skins, then collapsed onto the lounge carpet for a game of chess—our version of winding down after a long day of ceremony and emotion.

Ingrid and Harry were already camped in front of the telly, glued to Dr Finlay’s Casebook—a show so slow you could paint a wall, watch it dry, repaint it, and still not miss anything important. That was followed by the weekly fever dream that was The Black and White Minstrel Show, a musical mystery wrapped in sequins and confusion. Ingrid sang along, bless her—enthusiastically, if not entirely in tune—while Harry sat there like a man enduring slow, melodic torture, grimacing with every off-key burst like it was personally offending his ears.

Their home was a glorious muddle of music, mismatched socks, and laughter. A bit chaotic, a bit loud, but full of life. A proper contrast to mine, which had started to feel more like a Cold War negotiation—everyone tiptoeing round each other, hoping not to trigger another verbal missile launch.

Mum barely spoke these days—tense, quiet, always tired in a way that didn’t come from lack of sleep. She moved like she was carrying weights no one could see, dragging them through every day with a brittle smile. We all kept up the act, pretending things were fine, which of course meant they definitely weren’t.

Tim and I had become masters of strategic invisibility—slipping round corners, sticking to the edges of rooms, and perfecting the art of disappearing before any conversations could escalate into raised voices or heavy sighs. We were like two junior spies, only our mission was avoiding domestic crossfire and never making eye contact during dinner.

So when school finally broke up for the holidays, I let out a sigh loud enough to fog a window. Freedom. Blessed, glorious freedom.

Salvation came in the form of another golden-ticket invitation: I was off to the Swedish lodge again with Johan’s family. Meanwhile, my own lot were packing up to visit the grandparents’ pig farm in Peacehaven. It was a close call, obviously—skiing through snowy Scandinavian mountains or standing in a muddy Sussex field watching pigs argue over turnips—but in the end, Sweden just edged it.

This time, I travelled with Johan’s family across the North Sea by ferry. As we boarded, the sky darkened ominously overhead, like the Norse gods themselves were offering a subtle warning—or maybe just having a bit of fun at our expense.

Sure enough, halfway through the crossing, a storm rolled in like it had something to prove. The wind howled, the waves crashed over the bow like unpaid extras in a disaster movie, and the ship began to roll with the kind of “aggressively enthusiastic” motion that made you question every life choice that led you to this moment.

The tannoy crackled to life with that unnervingly calm voice reserved for situations that are definitely not fine. You know the tone—like they’re trying to reassure you while quietly untying the lifeboats. “Ladies and gentlemen, for your safety, the outer decks are now closed,” it said, with all the urgency of a bedtime story.

Then came the real blow: two of the bars were closing early. This, naturally, caused far more concern than the weather. Murmurs of dismay rippled through the lounge. You could hear people mentally recalculating how many drinks they could order before the shutters came down.

Those still blessed with sea legs staggered off to their cabins; the rest of us stayed put in the lounge, gripping our armrests with white-knuckled determination, silently willing ourselves not to lose our dinner—or worse, our dignity.

As the storm picked up, more parts of the ship were gradually sealed off. Each announcement delivered in that same maddeningly serene tone—like they were advertising lavender-scented candles, not describing a vessel slowly being dismantled by the North Sea. “Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to inform you the upper lounge is now closed.” Translation: the upper lounge has become a water feature.

It reminded me of that classic dentist lie—“You’ll just feel a little prick”—right before they jab you with a needle the size of a fencing foil. Except here, instead of a prick, it was a lurch, and instead of anaesthetic, it was panic with a splash of nausea.

Johan and I had staked out a coffee table near one of the bars, figuring it was as good a place as any to witness maritime mayhem firsthand. Sure enough, a row of empty chairs suddenly shot across the floor like Olympic bobsledders, colliding with the opposite wall in a crash of splintered dignity. Behind us, the bar erupted into a symphony of smashing glasses and crockery, like a percussion section having a nervous breakdown.

A group of seasoned drinkers clung to their pints like lifeboats, shielding them with beer mats as if defending the crown jewels. Every time the ship momentarily righted itself, they snuck in a quick sip with all the stealth of MI6 agents. Then it was back to their death grips as the next wave launched a rogue tray of biscuits across the room like ninja stars. One Bourbons. Fatal trajectory.

Elsewhere, things were turning greener than a sack of Granny Smiths. Passengers stumbled about, clutching waxy paper sick bags—those charming little party favours tucked behind handrails and stairwell corners like a grim surprise in a lucky dip. Faces pale, eyes wild. The walking doomed.

In a moment of misguided optimism, I decided to try my luck with the lounge toilet. I opened the door and was immediately hit by a wall of air so foul it nearly knocked me back into the corridor. The floor was awash in an unholy tide of sick, sloshing gently with the ship’s roll—like a demonic soup of regret, bile, and diced carrots. I slammed the door, gagged into my sleeve, and decided that perhaps my need wasn’t quite so urgent after all.

Back in the lounge, Johan raised an eyebrow. “No luck?”

I flopped back onto my chair, looking pale and haunted. “Let’s just say the cabin loo’s going to feel like the Ritz.”

Note to self: One career path to firmly cross off the list—ferry cleaner. No salary on Earth is worth spendin’ your days ankle-deep in other people’s digestive decisions, armed only with a mop, a grim expression, and a pair of state-issued rubber boots cheerily emblazoned with “Deck Sanitation Team”, as if branding it like a Formula One pit crew might somehow make it glamorous.

After watchin’ what those poor souls had to wade through, the floor-mopping rota at Sea Cadets HQ suddenly felt like light yoga by comparison. Candlelit yoga, even.

When I grow up, I vowed, I’ll always—always—tip the cleaner generously. Especially if they’re wearin’ industrial footwear, smell vaguely of bleach, and have the haunted look of someone who’s seen things that’ll never leave them.

Amazingly, the ship’s evening theatre show still went ahead—because nothing says “cruise entertainment” like a full musical performance on a violently swaying stage in front of an audience that was half-green, half-sloshed, and fully unhinged.

Most of the passengers were now teetering somewhere between queasy and cheerfully plastered, desperate for any form of distraction that didn’t involve the horizon tilting at odd angles. Laughter broke out before the curtain had even lifted, as holidaymakers exchanged ‘thumbs up’ across the aisles and turned the theatre into a floating karaoke bar. No warm-up act needed—the audience was the warm-up act.

Naturally, Harry was in his element—grinning like a man who’d found the cocktail trolley in a blackout. His tie was already loose, his cheeks rosy, and he kept humming along to songs he probably didn’t know, swaying slightly in time with both the music and the ship’s occasional death roll.

It was chaos. Glorious, nautical chaos.

Although half the seats were empty, the remaining crowd more than made up for it in sheer volume. Even Ingrid managed to stay in tune—though, in fairness, it helped that her pitch was completely drowned out by a hundred other voices belting out Christmas classics in a variety of keys, most of them wrong.

The poor singer, dressed in a sequinned outfit and sky-high heels, gave it her all—trying to deliver a heartfelt ballad while the stage pitched like a trampoline at sea. Clinging to stage pillars like a glittery mountain goat, she zigzagged across the boards with the determined grace of someone absolutely refusing to die mid-verse. The applause at the end was thunderous—not for the song, but for the fact she didn’t fall off. Now that’s showbiz.

Meanwhile, the drummer’s stool kept sliding away from the rest of his kit, only for the next wave to shove him back into position so he could catch the beat again. The guitarists made no attempt to dance, understandably, choosing instead to stand rigid, their faces set in grim concentration as they lurched back and forth like reluctant figureheads.

Eventually, the compère stepped onto the stage with the look of a man surrendering to fate and announced, with brave understatement, that the evening’s performance would be ending early. Unsurprisingly, the audience had other ideas. Drinks kept coming, voices kept rising, and soon the theatre had morphed into a floating pub singalong—minus the pub. By the time the bar staff declared the glass supply officially deceased and shut up shop, most of us were ready to stagger off anyway.

I joined the line of weary passengers shuffling back to our cabins, heads heavy, ears ringing, and stomachs still swaying. Sleep didn’t come easily—between the creaking bulkheads, snoring neighbours, and the occasional lurch that made you momentarily airborne—but eventually, I drifted off, dreaming of steady ground, dry socks, and a nice quiet patch of frozen Swedish snow.

The following morning, the queue for fried breakfasts was suspiciously short. In fact, the restaurant was eerily quiet, like the aftermath of a particularly rowdy battlefield. Clearly, most passengers were still recovering—either from the storm, the show, or the sheer force of the previous night’s singalong.

The serving staff, perhaps feeling generous or just desperate to shift surplus stock, weren’t skimping on the portions. My plate came out piled high with multiple eggs, sausages, bacon, beans, mushrooms, and a fried slice big enough to use as a roof tile. I even got a whole rack of toast to myself—untouched, unclaimed, and gloriously crisp.

Even Harry, veteran of countless breakfast buffets, leaned back in his chair, patted his stomach and declared, “I’m full up.” A rare statement indeed. Possibly historic. I made a mental note of the date—just in case it needed commemorating with a plaque.

There was a bit of a delay gettin’ off the ferry—surprise, surprise—because the people in the car ahead of us hadn’t actually made it to their car by the time the big ramp clanked open at the port of Gothenburg. Typical.

So there we sat, engines humming, exhaust puffin’ into the cold morning air, while the hapless family in front came trotting down the vehicle deck like they’d just remembered they owned a car. They were juggling armfuls of bags, duty-free carrier bags flappin’ about, and a rogue teddy bear dangling upside-down from a rucksack zip.

When they finally got their act together and started chuckin’ luggage back into the boot, a friendly cheer went up from the drivers behind—bit of light sarcasm, bit of genuine relief. One bloke even gave ‘em a slow clap out the window. They waved back, grinnin’ sheepishly, like they’d just performed a clumsy magic trick no one had asked for.

Once the boot slammed shut, we rolled forward at last—us and the long snake of cars behind, all eager to escape the floating carnival and breathe in the crisp Swedish air. Gothenburg might not have known we were coming, but it was about to.

The moment we spotted road signs we could read and traffic comin’ at us from what our brains still insisted was the wrong side of the road, we knew—without a doubt—we were definitely not in Hitchin anymore.

The thrill of bein’ back in Sweden hit us like a blast of mountain air through an open car window—cold, fresh, and full of possibility. Snow-laden fir trees lined the winding roads like a welcome committee of frosted giants, all noddin’ us along as we climbed higher into the hills.

And then, there it was—the lodge. Same spot, same view, same magic. As we pulled up, the usual gang of beaming relatives were already outside, waving like we’d just returned from a polar expedition. Leading the charge was Greta, a one-woman welcome parade with arms outstretched and eyes full of joy. She wrapped us both in one of her legendary smother-hugs—the kind that temporarily restricts breathing and realigns your ribs.

Right behind her was Olaf, stepping in with his traditional bear hug, which also doubled as a free chiropractic adjustment. If he squeezed any harder, I’d have coughed up my passport.

It felt good. That proper, bone-deep warmth of a family I’d practically adopted. Familiar faces, open arms, and no raised voices or walking-on-eggshells awkwardness. Considering my own lot were rarer than a sunny day in February—and usually just as cold—it felt like arriving somewhere safe.

The lodge hadn’t changed a bit—same ski racks by the door, same comforting crackle from the hearth, same warm smell of pine, old wood, and something bubbling away in the kitchen that made your stomach growl on cue.

I’d barely stepped inside, boots still crusted with snow, when we were ambushed by a blur of limbs and laughter. Vinka, Marlin, and Petra came barrellin’ down the hallway like a pack of excited reindeer. I took a direct hit—Marlin to the ribs, Vinka to the cheek, and Petra somewhere around the knees.

Swedish greetings, I decided, were far superior to British handshakes. Less awkward shufflin’, more full-body commitment.

As the chaos settled, Vinka stepped back, cheeks flushed, eyes twinkling. From behind her back, she pulled something out and held it up.

“Thought this belonged to you,” I said with a smile. It was the red hat. his red hat—the one I’d given him last winter.

I blinked. “But I thought it went missing?”

“It did,” I said, my voice dropping just a little. “Right before you left last year. Everyone thought you’d packed it… but I found it. Weeks later. Tucked behind the sofa.”

“Bit convenient,” I said, half-smiling, half-curious.

“You sure it didn’t walk back there on its own?”

She shrugged, playing it cool.

“Maybe it wanted to stay. Or maybe it didn’t want you to forget to come back.”

I looked down at the hat in my hands. It still had that faint smell of pine and woodsmoke. A little worn at the edges. A little like me, really.

“Well,” I said, pulling it on, “if it was trying to send a message, it worked.”

She looked pleased but said nothing—just nudged my arm, turned, and walked off toward the kitchen.

It was good to be back. Back in the warmth, the noise, the hugs that knocked the wind out of you. And back with someone who didn’t need to say much to say everything.

Inside, the lodge smelled like a cosy dream—smoky logs, spiced stew, and a faint whiff of whatever Petra had spilt on the radiator last week. No one knew what it was, and frankly, no one dared ask.

Petra caught Stephen in the kitchen while the kettle was boiling.

“Stephen… why didn’t Tim come with you this year?” she asked, tilting her head, a trace of hope still in her voice.

Stephen gave a wry grin. “Still not forgiven for the World Cup incident. Mum reckons blowing up the shed during England’s finest hour isn’t something you just ‘move past’ in a hurry.”

Petra laughed, though there was a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. “He actually did that?”

“Oh, he did,” Stephen said, pouring the tea. “And he says to tell you he’s sorry he couldn’t make it — and that he sends his love.”

Petra’s smile softened, and she looked down at her cup. “Tell him… I send mine back.”

The kitchen table was groanin’ under the weight of a bubbling stew pot the size of a small bathtub, and before we’d even finished shakin’ the snow off our hats, we were crammed in elbow to elbow—slurping, laughing, and swapping stories like no time had passed at all.

The fire roared, the wine flowed (well, for the grown-ups), and the jokes got progressively worse as the evening wore on—most of them courtesy of Olaf, who’d clearly missed his calling as a stand-up comedian in a very niche market.

By the time we finally gave up trying to keep our eyes open, we were stuffed with food, soaked in warmth, and stumbling off to bed with aching cheeks and ridiculous grins. It was the kind of night you wish you could bottle and open on cold, grey days when home feels a bit too quiet.

The following morning, I bravely flicked the catches of my suitcase, which had spent the night sulking in the corner like an unloved dog. It still smelled faintly of sea air and teenage socks, but I dug through it heroically, like an archaeologist searching for clean underwear among the ruins of a ferry voyage.

First win of the day: I managed to be the first into the shower. A tactical victory of the highest order, earning me an uninterrupted cascade of glorious hot water. Even better, they’d installed a radiator since last winter, which meant the bathroom no longer doubled as a meat locker. Gone were the frosted windows and toilet seats so cold they could’ve been used in psychological warfare. I even noticed the tap water tasted better—maybe it was the mountain minerals… or maybe just the joy of not having to brush my teeth with something that resembled chilled pond water.

After a breakfast hearty enough to fuel a small army—or at least four hungry teenagers—Stefan spread a map out on the kitchen table like a general planning a full-scale alpine assault. We gathered round, mugs in hand, as he solemnly handed me the compass like it was a sacred relic.

Thank goodness I’d actually paid attention during map-reading lessons. Nothing like the added pressure of Stefan’s eagle-eyed stare watching your every pencil stroke—nodding silently like a man judging a soufflé. No pressure. I took extra care plotting the bearings, resisting every urge to “freestyle” a scenic shortcut, mostly because I valued both my legs and my reputation.

It was decided that Greta and Olaf would drive to a designated lunch point to meet us later with flasks of hot drinks and—if the universe was feeling kind—copious sandwiches. There’d been no alarming messages from Stefan’s mysterious network of mountain mates, those ever-reliable, weather-savvy types who always seemed to know about every avalanche, moose sighting, and dodgy ski lift three days before the news did. Still, just to be safe, we marked out a Plan B rendezvous. And a Plan C. Because if there’s one thing you learn quickly in the mountains, it’s that snow couldn’t care less about your carefully plotted bearings or sandwich delivery schedules.

The big moment arrived. The entire family huddled in like penguins at feeding time as I was handed the noble duty of revealing The Plan. With so many heads bobbing and necks craning to see the map, it looked less like a strategic briefing and more like a flash mob of curious meerkats.

Stefan, ever the practical one, suggested we pin the map to the cork board in the hallway between the lounge and the kitchen. Brilliant idea. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Oh right—probably because I’d been too busy pretending I was Shackleton’s long-lost apprentice instead of a kid in ski boots desperately trying not to drop the compass.

As I presented the route with my best impression of a military operations officer—complete with grave tone and lots of purposeful pointing—I spotted a few approving nods and the odd “serious face” among the group. All very promising. But then I caught a few cheeky smirks and some subtle elbow-nudging when I mentioned one particular leg of the journey.

I paused, squinted at the map, and asked, “Alright, what have I missed?”

Cue the innocent grins. “Oh, nothing,” they said in unison.

Which, of course, meant I was being led directly into a snow-covered ambush of some sort—probably one involving sleds, pratfalls, or a conveniently positioned snowdrift. Even Stefan looked suspiciously pleased with himself, standing off to the side like a Bond villain who’d just activated the trapdoor and was waiting for me to plunge in face-first.

We finally set off from the lodge, twelve of us bundled up like a travelling band of high-vis marshmallows. I was swaddled in layers under my salopettes and ski jacket, topped off with my brand-new, birthday-worthy backpack, which made me feel like a junior version of Amundsen—if Amundsen had a fondness for dramatic entrances and a well-stocked snack pouch.

The pack had everything: a folding snow shovel (ideal for digging or heroic posing), a NASA-approved foil blanket that could double as a disco cape, a Swiss Army knife, paracord, waterproof matches, and a torch powerful enough to signal passing satellites. Some of the more covert gear—a tin with a mirror in the lid, for instance—made me feel ready for a full escape-and-evasion mission.

Honestly, if things went south, I could probably survive a week in the wilderness... or at least look impressive for the first twenty minutes.

And to top it all off, we were all wearing identical bright orange woolly beanies—apparently promotional gifts from Stefan’s winter sports business. We looked like a cult of citrus fruit out for a hike. Marlin declared the colour “very now,” which I assumed was a fashion thing. Personally, I liked how warm it kept my ears—and if anyone tried to lose me in a snowdrift, good luck. I was practically fluorescent.

Although I hadn’t clipped into a pair of skis for over a year, it all came back quicker than the smell of wet dog after a snowball fight. Within minutes I was glidin’ along like winter had never left me, the cold air stingin’ my cheeks in that oddly invigoratin’ way—like nature givin’ you a polite slap and sayin’, “Wake up, sunshine.”

Vinka pushed up alongside me, her skis hissing softly over the packed snow. “Not bad for an old man,” she teased, eyes sparkling as she gave me a playful nudge with her pole. I tried to return the favour but she darted ahead, laughing, the steam of her breath curling away into the frosty air. I caught up just in time to see her flick a perfect rooster tail of powder in my direction. “Missed me,” I called — though a cold clump slid down the back of my neck, making me yelp. She was still giggling when I glided up beside her again, close enough to see the flush in her cheeks and the way her smile softened just for me. It reminded me of that first winter we skied together, when she’d waited for me halfway down the slope, claiming it was just to check I hadn’t crashed — but really, I think she liked having me catch her.

The lane leading out of the village and into the forest looked like somethin’ off the front of a Christmas card. One of those annoyingly perfect ones with glittery snow, a horse-drawn sleigh, and not a single yellow snow patch in sight. Personally, I’d have preferred the cartoon version—stick-figure skiers gettin’ ambushed by slushy snow bombs falling off overloaded branches. Much more realistic. And frankly, way funnier.

For the first half hour, the route was blissfully easy—mostly flat, ideal terrain for showing off my nonchalant glide-and-grin technique. I even threw in a casual little backwards glance now and then, just to remind the others who they were dealin’ with.

Then came the inclines.

At first, they were just irritating little slopes that required a bit of side-stepping, huffin’, and swearing under your breath. But then we reached the slope. This thing wasn’t a hill—it was a vertical insult to legs. A towering white beast that sneered at your thighs and dared you to try.

Naturally, determined to impress, I charged up like a caffeinated mountain goat. And—miracle of miracles—I made it. Stood at the top, puffin’ but proud, hands on hips, chest out, giving it my best “King of the Hill” pose.

Then I turned to accept the admiration of my loyal expedition team… only to find them smirking. Not at me—but at what lay just beyond.

Uh-oh.

Turns out, I had heroically led us straight into a ski trap—an infamous patch of moguls so wild they probably had their own postal code. Imagine a giant egg carton turned upside down and kicked across the mountain by a drunken giant, and you’re halfway there. Each snow bump was a different size, shape, and texture—just to keep things interesting. These weren’t your neat little ski-resort moguls. No, these were chaotic, rebellious lumps of snow that actively dared you to stay upright.

Most locals avoided this route like a bad buffet. I, on the other hand, had boldly chosen it... entirely by accident.

As I surveyed the undulating madness before me, the realisation dawned—I’d peaked too soon. Both literally and figuratively. Behind me, the rest of the party lined up like skiers at a rollercoaster they didn’t remember queueing for.

Marlin raised an eyebrow in that “I told you so” kind of way. Johan muttered something about natural selection under his breath. And Vinka—bless her—just grinned like she’d scored front row seats to a guaranteed disaster. Possibly with snacks.

I took the plunge—quite literally—bouncing over the first mogul with all the grace of a startled deer, and the second with the uncoordinated flair of a fridge tumbling down a staircase. My skis, now clearly possessed by some mischievous spirit, took on lives of their own, zigzagging with a sense of purpose entirely separate from mine. I clung on for dear life, arms flailing like semaphore signals in a storm. At one point, I’m fairly certain I caught air—not the stylish, slow-motion kind you see in ski films, but the heart-stopping, oh-no-what-have-I-done variety that usually ends with a face full of snow and a bruised sense of dignity.

Each bump presented a fresh chance to test the flexibility of joints I didn’t even know I possessed. Somewhere between a semi-controlled bounce and a fully committed faceplant, I miraculously remained upright—largely due to my arms, which flailed about with all the chaotic enthusiasm of a conductor leading a symphony of sheer panic.

Behind me, the others followed, a blur of laughter, shrieks, and the occasional yelp of surprise. Johan, naturally, had to show off—executing what can only be described as a backwards somersault (intentional or not, no one’s sure) and sticking the landing with a fist in the air like he’d just won gold in the Olympic “accidental acrobatics” event.

Behind me, the descent turned into a right old pantomime.

“Oi! Watch it!” ~Sven shouted, careening past like a runaway wheelbarrow.

“You call that skiing? Looks more like interpretive dance, mate!” I hollered back, just before nearly taking out a small pine tree.

Vinka screamed, “Incoming!” as she slid sideways, taking Marlin with her in a tangle of limbs and colourful knitwear.

Johan, ever the showman, somehow managed to pull off another backwards somersault, landing on his feet with a grin the size of Essex and thrusting a gloved fist in the air like he’d just won Ski Sunday.

“That’s how it’s done!” he crowed.

“Yeah, alright,” I shouted, “save it for the Winter Olympics!”

By the time we reached the bottom, we looked like survivors of a particularly spirited pub brawl in the Alps—hats skew-whiff, snow stuffed into places no snow should go, and pride taking a gentle knock.

I took a deep bow, arms outstretched like I was taking a curtain call at the Palladium.

“Thank you, ladies and gents—I’ll be here all week, try the fondue!”

The others burst into applause and hoots of laughter.

Stefan, cool as a snowman in a tux, strolled over and casually handed me my missing glove.

“Think you dropped this round bump seven,” he said, deadpan.

“Ta, mate,” I grinned. “I was wonderin’ why my left hand was feelin’ the full Arctic experience.”

Thankfully, the next stretch was gloriously flat—a blessed reprieve for knees that had seen far too much action in the past ten minutes. The path meandered lazily along the valley floor, dusted with fresh snow and flanked by pines that stood like silent sentries. Just ahead, the track curled towards a narrow mountain road, and there they were Olaf and Greta stood ready with the kind of picnic setup that would make a regimental quartermaster weep with joy.

Vinka glided up beside me as I finally staggered onto flatter ground, cheeks flushed and eyes shining with mischief. “Well,” she said, breathless from laughing, “that was either the worst skiing I’ve ever seen… or the bravest. I’m going with brave.” She brushed a spray of snow off my shoulder, her glove lingering for a moment. “You stayed upright the whole way, and you even made it look intentional. That takes skill, Heale.” I snorted, certain that “skill” wasn’t quite the word, but the warmth in her smile made me take the compliment.

As we arrived—like frostbitten heroes returning from some noble (and slightly ridiculous) campaign—the folding table had already been deployed with military precision, and the flasks stood uncorked, releasing clouds of steam like warming signals to our battle-weary noses. Cups of hot chocolate stood in perfect formation, a cocoa army ready to soothe the shaken and stir the soul. Thick slices of rye bread, each crowned with slabs of cheese and cured meats, suddenly tasted like something conjured from a Parisian bistro rather than a chilly roadside in rural Sweden.

And just when we thought morale couldn’t possibly climb any higher, Olaf appeared with a tray, sneakily concealed beneath an upturned cardboard box—as if preparing for a magic trick or a battlefield briefing.

Then came Greta, eyes twinkling, with a flourish that would put any stage magician to shame. She whipped off the box to reveal a mighty birthday cake—smothered in glossy chocolate fudge icing and practically glowing with calorific splendour. Gasps of delight echoed through the ranks as candles were hastily jabbed into place. With typical Scandinavian ingenuity, the cardboard box was torn into strips and positioned as a makeshift windbreak, shielding the flickering flames from the alpine breeze.

What followed was a gloriously chaotic rendition of “Happy Birthday,” a multilingual muddle with names shouted in every direction like festive snowballs. When Greta finally sliced into the cake, a reverent hush descended—a collective pause as the first bite melted on tongues and eyes briefly closed in sugary bliss. It wasn’t just finger-licking good—it was “I’d happily lose a toe for another slice” good.

After lunch, I was presented with a choice: ski back like a stoic Nordic warrior, or ride home in Olaf’s gloriously toasty car like a pampered dignitary. Anna, Silvi and Ingrid, clearly in possession of both sense and circulation, immediately opted for the heated seats and mulled wine prep duty.

I, on the other hand—fuelled by pride, peer pressure, and a worrying lapse in judgment—gritted my teeth and declared, “I’d love to carry on skiing.”

In hindsight, I’d have fared better strapped to the roof rack like an awkward bit of luggage and quietly calling it a day. At least then I wouldn’t have had to pretend my knees were still part of the decision-making team.

The afternoon route skirted the edge of a bustling ski resort, and although we nobly stuck to the off-piste like rogue adventurers avoiding the tourist throngs, we still encountered our fair share of Lycra-clad daredevils zipping past with terrifying confidence. Our traffic-cone-orange bobble hats once again proved their worth—less a fashion statement, more a survival tool—keeping our ragtag unit visible and, more importantly, together.

Well, mostly. I was noticeably flagging, my legs protesting with every turn and my motivation rapidly melting like a snowman in a sauna. Johan’s uncles, spotting weakness like wolves sniffing out a limping reindeer, seized the opportunity to crank up the mischief. They composed a song mid-ski—if you could call it that—complete with a painfully catchy chorus: “Böj knäna och fortsätt le” “Bendzee kneez and keep smiling!”

It was repeated with the enthusiasm of a pub singalong and the musicality of a lawnmower hitting gravel. Good advice, perhaps—but absolute murder on the ears.

The group had stretched out along the snowy trail, a zigzagging line of bobble hats and plumes of breath, each moving at their own rhythm. Up front, Johan and the uncles charged ahead like a pair of overexcited huskies. Somewhere in the middle, Marlin and Petra were deep in conversation, occasionally pausing to wave at the mountains or adjust their layers.

I, however, was bringing up the rear in grand tradition—legs aching, lungs wheezing, and pride hanging on by a thread. Each stride felt like I was negotiating with my knees, who were very much done with the day’s programme.

“Falling behind, are we, Snöplog Steve?”

Vinka had dropped back, effortlessly gliding up alongside me with the poise of someone born in ski boots. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her scarf flapping in the breeze like a little victory flag.

“I’m conserving energy,” I muttered. “Strategic pacing.”

“Oh yes,” I said with a grin. “Very elite. I’m sure the Swedish Olympic team will be calling any day now.”

I gave a wheezy chuckle, grateful for her presence. “Honestly, I think my legs are staging a silent protest.”

She slowed her pace to match mine and reached over to gently tug the edge of my hat down over my ear.

“You’re doing brilliantly. You’ve made it all this way, and you haven’t once skied into a tree or fallen off a cliff. That’s what we call progress.”

“Not setting the bar terribly high, are we?”

“Survival is an underrated achievement,” “Especially in borrowed trousers and questionable socks.”

I smiled, despite the pain in my thighs and the chill sneaking down my back. “Thanks for hanging back.”

“You looked like you could use some company. And besides” “you’re the only one who doesn’t sing ‘Bendzee kneez’ off-key.”

We skied on in companionable silence for a few moments, the sound of our skis whispering through the snow and the distant cackle of Johan’s uncles echoing off the pines.

“I think I might actually enjoy this,” I said eventually. “If I survive it.”

“You will,” I replied, glancing over with that same small smile that always managed to say more than words. “And if you don’t… well, you’ll look heroic in the stories.”

We shared a quiet laugh, and for a moment, the cold didn’t seem quite so biting.

I adjusted my gloves, then added more softly, “You know… you’re braver than you think.”

I gave her a sideways look. “Because I haven’t cried or called for a helicopter yet?”

“No,” I said, nudging him playfully with my elbow, “because you keep going, even when it’s hard. Even when you could take the easy way out.” I gestured behind us toward the valley road where Olaf’s warm car had disappeared. “You don’t just give up.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I didn’t. But something warm flickered beneath my ribs—just enough to overpower the cold.

I looked ahead for a moment, then back at him. “I like that about you.”

That made me stumble slightly—not from ice, not from fatigue, but from sheer surprise.

“You… do?”

“Of course,” I said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve got heart, Stephen. And terrible balance. But heart goes a long way.”

I laughed again, though this time it came out a little breathless.

There was a silence after that, not awkward, just… aware. I suddenly became very conscious of the fact that we were side by side, moving in sync, her shoulder brushing mine occasionally. The cold air had gone still. Even the uncles’ dreadful chorus had faded into the distance.

Then I added, as if throwing in a final snowball, “Don’t let it go to your head, though. I can still ski circles round you.”

“Oh, absolutely,” I said, recovering quickly. “But I like to think I fall with more style.”

She grinned, and we carried on—still at the back, still flagging—but with something new gliding quietly between us. Not quite said. Not quite ignored.

Just… noticed.

We arrived back at the lodge in surprisingly high spirits—and, to my astonishment, within thirty minutes of our planned ETA. A minor miracle, considering my contribution to alpine velocity was somewhere between cautious tortoise and malfunctioning snowplough. Not bad for my first official expedition, I thought, though my feet were already composing a lengthy list of grievances to be submitted directly to the Ministry of Pain.

Freeing them from the ski bindings felt like a minor religious experience—equal parts relief and euphoria. I may have whispered a prayer of thanks to whoever invented woollen socks.

Inside, Stefan had already swung into action, assuming his role as High Priest of Ski Order. Ever the Swiss watch of logistics, he oversaw the ritual gear-cleaning and waxing with the solemnity of a museum curator restoring ancient artefacts. Each item had its ordained place—pegs for helmets, shelves for boots, hooks for poles—and woe betide the poor soul who disrupted the sacred arrangement.

Only once the kit had been respectfully returned to its temple and Stefan gave a solemn nod of approval were we permitted to proceed with the next rite of passage: the sauna.

We all but flung ourselves into its blessed warmth, our frozen limbs sizzling on contact like sausages on a hot grill. The air filled with groans of contentment, clouds of steam, and the gentle popping of thawing knuckles. For a moment, none of us spoke. We simply sat, half-cooked and happy, soaking in the heat like pilgrims who had earned their rest.

The sauna had begun as a rowdy retreat—steam rising in clouds, towels slung like battle flags, and laughter ricocheting off the pine walls. Johan and his uncles had turned it into an impromptu après-ski comedy club, complete with bad impressions and worse jokes.

Marlin and Ingrid had bowed out first, citing overheating and the promise of tea. Johan soon followed, muttering something about ice baths and beer, and the uncles trailed off not long after, cackling as they went.

And then, it was just me. And Vinka.

The sudden quiet felt like someone had turned down the volume on the world. The air was still thick with heat and mist, but now the only sounds were the soft hiss of the stove and the occasional drip of sweat.

She shifted on the bench beside me, her towel wrapped loosely around her shoulders, damp strands of hair curling at her temples. I caught the scent of pine oil and something faintly floral.

“Still alive, Snöplog Steve?” I murmured, my voice low and amused.

“Barely,” I said, stretching my legs with a groan. “If my knees had a union, they’d be on strike by now.”

I chuckled, resting my head lightly against the timber wall. “You know, I’m impressed.”

I gave her a sideways glance. “At my inability to stay upright?”

“At your determination,” I said simply. “Most people would’ve taken the car, blamed the boots, claimed altitude sickness. But you stuck it out.”

I shrugged, suddenly shy under her gaze. “Didn’t want to be the only one who gave up.”

I turned slightly to face him, drawing one leg up onto the bench. “That’s the thing—no one would’ve blamed you. But you didn’t do it for anyone else, did you?”

I hesitated. “Maybe not.”

For a while, neither of us spoke. The warmth seeped deep into my muscles, coaxing them into something like peace. Steam curled around us like a thick veil, muffling the outside world.

Then I said, almost absently, “You’re different than I expected.”

I raised an eyebrow. “In a good way?”

I smiled. “In a better way. Thought you were just Johan’s quieter shadow. But there’s a lot going on in there.”

“Well, I am quieter,” I said, half-laughing. “That’s not exactly hard.”

I laughed too, but his eyes stayed on mine. “Still. I see you, Stephen.”

The way she said it—soft but certain—landed somewhere just beneath my ribs. I looked at her, really looked, and for a moment, everything else faded: the aching muscles, the long day, the lingering steam. Just her, inches away, cheeks flushed from the heat, watching me like she’d known me a lot longer than she had.

I opened my mouth, unsure what I was about to say, when she stood, breaking the spell with the rustle of a towel and a smile that carried just enough mischief to keep me guessing.

“Come on,” I said, holding out a hand. “If we stay in here any longer, we’ll be soup.”

I took her hand without thinking—warm, firm, real—and let her pull me up.

Emerging from the sauna like freshly steamed dumplings, we drifted into the lounge wrapped in bathrobes and woolly socks, resembling some bizarre Scandinavian boy band—if said boy band specialised in thermal therapy and awkward towel management. Limbs loose, cheeks glowing, and muscles no longer screaming, we flopped onto sofas and rugs like contented sloths, basking in the afterglow of heat and hard-earned rest.

Then came the scent.

From the kitchen, a heavenly aroma began to creep through the lodge—something rich and savoury with just a hint of something sweet lurking beneath. Whatever Ingrid and Anna were conjuring, it had the magnetic pull of a cartoon pie on a windowsill. One by one, we began to stir, noses twitching, eyes glazing over, and feet shuffling toward the dining room like enchanted villagers under a culinary spell.

My stomach let out an audible growl, the kind that sounded like it was being negotiated by angry badgers.

Vinka, trailing just behind me, raised an eyebrow with a smirk.

“Should I be worried? Or do you just need immediate feeding?”

“Bit of both,” I muttered. “If dinner doesn’t arrive soon, I can’t be held responsible for what I try to eat.”

I laughed softly. “Noted. We’ll keep you away from the decorative candles and the pine-scented soap.”

The long wooden table groaned under the glorious weight of steaming dishes. There was moose stew, thick and fragrant, its surface shimmering with rich, meaty promise. Roasted root vegetables—parsnips, carrots, and something purple I didn’t dare question—had been caramelised to golden perfection, their edges crisp and sweet. Bowls of tangy lingonberry sauce sat like ruby jewels among the earthier tones, and the crusty bread, warm and buttered, seemed to multiply on its own as if the basket refused to stay empty.

At the head of the table, Olaf carved the meat with the slow, deliberate grace of a Viking chieftain presiding over a midwinter feast. Each slice was laid out like an offering. Papa, meanwhile, made his rounds with a bottle of aquavit, pouring generous measures into stout glasses and handing them out with a grin that could have lit the room on its own.

“This’ll warm your toes,” he said, with a wink, “and possibly singe your eyebrows.”

I sniffed my glass cautiously. It smelled like something you’d use to strip paint… but in a strangely festive way.

As the evening wore on, so did the stories—and, inevitably, the singing. Uncle Stefan led a chorus of traditional Swedish songs, only occasionally pausing to correct Johan’s wandering pronunciation or shoot a withering glare at Uncle Harry’s enthusiastic (but gloriously off-key) harmonies. The rest of us joined in when we knew the words, and mumbled along when we didn’t, united by volume more than accuracy.

At one point, Petra leapt to her feet for a performance of her own—complete with pirouettes, a dramatic curtain-call bow, and a very serious demand for applause. Naturally, we obliged with thunderous clapping and whoops that would’ve done a rock concert proud.

By the time dessert arrived—some sort of heavenly cloudberry concoction topped with whipped cream and what I can only describe as a sprinkling of actual magic—I was convinced I’d stumbled into the cosiest, happiest corner of the planet.

Snow tapping gently at the windows, firelight flickering across rosy cheeks, laughter still bubbling around the table… and Vinka sitting across from me, catching my eye every now and then with a smile that felt like a secret shared between just us.

After dinner, someone fired up the old gramophone in the lounge, and things took a sharp left turn into glorious chaos. Records crackled to life, filling the room with jaunty dance tunes, and before long the men were prancing around the furniture like overgrown schoolboys, tea-towels tied around their heads like eccentric turbans.

When the music stopped, a new challenge emerged: balancing shot glasses on their foreheads while attempting a slow, wobbly circuit around one of the settees—without spilling a drop.

The rest of us watched in a mixture of awe and mild concern as various contenders failed spectacularly. Shirts were left with spreading damp patches, clinging awkwardly to chests as the fallen sat down in defeat, glasses dripping and dignity hanging by a thread.

The final showdown came down to uncle Harry and Lars—both terrifyingly focused, both unnervingly steady. Ronnie, naturally, decided to up the ante by attempting to lob peanuts into their glasses as they passed him, a move which added significantly to the drama and significantly less to the success rate.

When uncle Harry was finally declared the winner—his glass somehow still half-full and his posture that of a man accepting an Olympic gold—Aunt Ingrid clapped politely and remarked, “Well, he would win. He’s spent half his life practising this exact skill.”

Uncle Harry raised his glass, grinning proudly. “And people said it would never come in handy.”

The whole family gathered in the lounge, wrapped in blankets and bathrobes, cradling mugs of hot chocolate with marshmallows slowly melting into gooey bliss. The fire crackled gently in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on tired but happy faces. Conversation bubbled on—light, meandering, full of laughter and the kind of comfort that only comes when no one’s in a rush to leave.

It wasn’t just me who found themselves yawning behind a mug. The day had taken its toll on everyone—legs aching, cheeks sore from smiling. But what a day it had been.

A long, wonderful day.