The Californians were finding Mike’s Canadian flattened vowel sound on out the funniest thing they’d heard. From the group came lots of oowt sounds accompanied by cries of neat. Mike sighed before continuing. It was going to be a long day.

‘… and then the race will commence down the Beaver run, through the slalom poles you see there, ending at Beaver Lodge, where you’ll be judged not only on your time, but on the originality of your costume.’

The wrinklies looked smug, their nods and smiles telling of their conviction that their Victorian skiing-party theme would win the day with dignity. The kids whooped and hollered neat.

‘So if you want to register here now, pick up a numbered bib, then there’s ten minutes for a practice run, just to get those legs warmed up. Okay, everybody. Have a great fun-run, remember to ski safe and good luck.’

The older participants applauded Mike politely while a scuffle of wrestling and jostling kids ignored the end of his speech and hurried to the starting post to pick up their bibs.

One of the girls in the pathetic bunny outfit brushed Mike as she passed, letting the hand not holding her poles run across his buttocks. ‘Sorry Mr Canuck. Hand slipped.’

Mike swung his ski round in front of hers, making her jolt to a halt and caught her round the waist before she fell.

He spoke in low voice, right in her ear. ‘Missy, if I fucked you, you wouldn’t sit down for a week. So if you’re really gagging for it, you best stick with these faggots if you want to go home with your buns still touching.’ He flashed a huge grin at the horrified girl as if he’d just read the snow report, and let her go with a gentlemanly flourish. ‘Have a nice one, you hear.’

The flushed bunny hurried to get her number and hide in the sanctuary of her young companions. Mike smiled and pushed off down the trail to man his post at the slalom.

The clown and the two cowboys were trying to step on each other’s bindings and unclip them while the girls tied each other’s bibs on. The Victorian party had already registered, been numbered and were pushing off for the practice.

As Sean fooled around, registering with a tolerant patroller, two guys in Mambo suits slid past on Volkl P9s. They looked like pretty hot skiers. Sean turned to smile at them, maybe give them an O with his thumb and forefinger to let them know he was part of the brotherhood of hot skiers too.

The older guy looked back impassively. ‘Fun-run, huh? Guess that’s goin’ to feature big in the next Greg Stump video.’

His streamlined companion laughed and they slid past, making sure the costumed contestants, but not the patrollers, saw them when they slid under the ski-trail tape and jumped off the cornice.