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might damage my fragile sense of well-being. Focusing on
my surroundings, I noticed how the snow drifting past my
feet, propelled by the wind, looked like running water. I was
struck by the fancy that I was swimming rather than skiing
and amused myself by making breaststroke motions with my
arms as I glided forward on my skis, occasionally switching to
front crawl or even butterfly. My surreal mime made me smile
at my own silliness and I continued to swim into wind past
my aquarium of mountains. I found myself humming a tune,
then realised that, being alone, I was free to vent my joy in any
way I pleased. I bellowed out the tune in my head but as my
voice cracked and reverberated off key I decided that even an
audience of one was perhaps one too many.
'Thank goodness for that,' I said aloud to the air when I
stopped singing.
They were the first words I had spoken all day.
Talking to myself, I noticed, was a completely instinctive
response to being alone. When it was time to pitch the tent
I found myself giving a running commentary to the space
around me,
'Front pegs first,' I instructed as I pinned out the tent in the
snow.
'Make them nice and sturdy. There we go.'
'Keep everything tidy. You don't want to lose anything,'
I cautioned.
Then when I stood back to survey my work I congratulated
myself in satisfaction, 'Tent looks good. Nice job.'
As it had the previous day, my good mood disappeared
as soon as I crawled into the tent and I was revisited by the
now recognisable pall of loneliness. The nausea returned
too, as if it was the physical manifestation of the unease that
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