Mrs Bean goes to Verbier

This piece brings back such wonderful memories! I wrote it…25 years ago, when our children were small, when my husband was working, when going up to the mountains for the weekend was a major production. I no longer go to the mountains much, especially not in winter, the cold never really did it for me and it certainly doesn’t do it for me now.

If I think about it, going anywhere with children (especially small children) is a major production; there’s so much you need to think think about. And if you read this, and it resonates in any way, please know that I am presenting you with sorts of awards and decorating you with numerous medals! You deserve them.

Now, with no further ado, I give you Mrs Bean…

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Have you noticed how advertisers portray family car-trips? All those shiny, happy people with well-behaved children. I don't know what happened to me. Maybe I never owned the right car. But I do know this: no family outing of mine will ever appear on the silver screen, except for, possibly, in a horror movie or, at a push, in a comedy such as "Mr Bean's wife goes to Verbier".

Remember the movie "Parenthood" with Steve Martin? The scene where the children sang the rude song about runny tummies? That's more like it. But even they had a clean car. My car is never clean, it is always full of crumbs, chocolate bar wrappers, Kinder Egg plastic toys and school newsletters. It also smells of dog farts. In fact, my car is a disgrace.

We never sing kiddy songs in the car; no "Ten Green Bottles" or "This old Man" for us. At least, for the time being, they are too young to sing rude songs (although my six-year-old daughter is on the right track). Not that I mind rude songs; heaven knows I still sing plenty! My children have much more sophisticated tastes. At the moment they want the Backstreet Boys, Boyzone, Natalie Imbruglia and Gary Barlow. Very slick.

Preparations for trips are a nightmare. When, in the winter months, I prepare to drive up to Verbier for the weekends, I never have neatly packed suitcases to put in the back of the car. I have overflowing bags of every shape and size! I flap around desperately trying to find hats, gloves and sunglasses. Gregory, my three-year-old son, wants to take his entire "Tots' TV" and "Rosie and Jim" video collection with him and piles them on top of a bag already spilling with sheets, towels and the fourteen soft toys my daughter Olivia has insisted on bringing. I have already packed Gregory half a dozen diggers and "Blowdozers" as he calls them, but, silly me, have omitted to pack that really special one. Or I have packed it and it's at the bottom of the bag and he wants to play with it RIGHT NOW.

My husband always calls at an impossible moment to ask me to find his sunglasses which he forgot to include when he packed his bag last night (he has his own designer travel bag into which he puts two pairs of underwear, two pairs of socks, two T-shirts, one pair of jeans and one sweater). I can never find his sunglasses, or else I forget to look because I suddenly remember that I need to take dogfood for Barney and Simba. I tend to get side-tracked, it's one of my major flaws.

My own bag weighs a ton. Besides an unnecessary amount of clothes, I also have three toilet bags containing shampoos, conditioners, the contents of the medicine cabinet, make-up, face creams, sun creams, after-sun creams.... There is a separate bag full of everyone's shoes: total weight: three tons.

Time to load the car. The trunk will be full of dogs, leaving room for little else. I have often toyed with the idea of splashing out on one of those wonderful roof boxes, but it would probably mean buying an entire collection of aerodynamic luggage to match which is definitely not on this year's financial agenda.

I also have to fit in half-a-dozen grocery bags containing the last-minute must-takes: a pair of slippers, Barbie's little sister, a radio-controlled car, CDs and books. I am forced to put things in the trunk with the dogs. This is tricky: Barney is always car sick and I have to decide what he is allowed to vomit on. I put the journey survival rations on the front passenger seat (biscuits, chocolate buns, drinks, a couple of dummies and baby wipes).

Time to go. My daughter finishes school in 30 seconds and I can't be late. I try to coax the dogs into the car. There isn't much space for them and Barney decides that it's too scary in there and refuses to hop in. When I finally drag him into the car, Simba, our snappy Lhassa Apso, attacks Barney's ears and a fight breaks out. My son enthusiastically bounds out of the front door and immediately trips over, falling in a strategically placed dog pooh and needs to be changed from head to toe.

Finally, we're all in. Tension grows as my son screams "Don't forget my seatbelt" - as if I ever would. Ignition. And they're off......

And off we are. Gregory wants a chocolate biscuit, wants a chocolate biscuit, wants a chocolate biscuit. I get the message and hand him the packet. We are late for school pick-up and there is a traffic jam. Everywhere are irate mothers with cars full of bags trying to collect their kids and get onto the motorway to head up to the mountains for the weekend. Olivia is upset. She has a microscopic cut on her little finger and is in desperate need of a pink bandage with Minnie Mouse on it. The nurse only has green Donald Duck bandages left so Olivia does a great drama queen impersonation.

Thanks to my excellent driving skills, we manage to leave the school grounds.  We listen and sing along to our usual collection of tapes. This is the easy part of the trip. Just a few insane drivers, a couple of traffic jams and Barney farting in the back of the car, nothing I can't handle. I'm beginning to relax. It's an hour and three quarters drive from our house to Verbier and the scenery is magnificent, except you can't see it today because it's foggy. Gregory and Olivia only begin to kill each other during the last hour, a great improvement from last year.

We exit the motorway. It's really foggy now and there is snow on the road. We crawl along, the kids keep on telling me to be careful and the rude man in the car behind me is purple in the face because I'm driving too slowly. He passes me on a blind corner and gives me the finger. They talk about women drivers but, put a man behind the wheel and if he can't burn rubber or gets stuck in a traffic jam, all hell breaks loose. I quite enjoy traffic jams. I can chat on my mobile phone, apply some lip gloss, ... Just chill for a while....

Here we are doing a slow crawl up the mountain, the snow flurries turning gradually into a full blown blizzard. I hate driving in snow. The children are getting really obnoxious now: "Mama, Gregory hit me." "Mama, Olivia ate all the chocolate biscuits." "Aaaaagh, Mamaaaaaa...." Barney is busy throwing up. Simba, code-name "Mr. Tibet", is used to snow, heights and hairpin bends and is happily snoring away. I pray that I won't need to stop and put the chains on. I haven't a clue how to do it.

Somehow, we make it to the chalet. By now the kids are practically naked in the back seat; shoes, socks, sweaters gone and I have to dress them again before we can face the arctic conditions. Then we all scramble out and I ask them each to carry something. Olivia carries her Barbie and Gregory a "blowdozer". Great. Thanks a lot. I carry three bags, a sledge, two grocery bags and hang a pair of ski boots between my teeth.

I settle the kids in front of Cartoon Network and make another thirty-five trips to the car, with the grand finale being a dog-sick cleaning up mission.

But hey, it's not over yet! Time to go to the supermarket! My husband is coming up later with my sister and her boyfriend and they will all want dinner when they get here at about 9:30. The kids are furious. "Mamaaaa, we're going to miss "Cow and Chicken". I dress them again and we make a hazardous trip in thick snow down to the village supermarket. They harass me for chocolate, Coca-cola, crisps, biscuits. I say no no no and am branded a Mean Mama. This is so much fun. I fill the trolley with really sexy things: milk, yogurt and butter, toast and jam, pasta, Parmesan cheese, raclette and toilet paper. We queue up for hours behind brown faced, healthy looking people wearing trendy ski and snow-board gear buying one diet-yogurt each. They are discussing their evening plans. It's all fun and games in Verbier tonight! The Farm Club will be bopping, the Swedish pub will be mopping up regurgitated beer and girls in skimpy tops will be catching gorgeous guys along with pneumonia.

Back to the chalet. I make up four beds, unpack the thirty-five bags and the shopping. Then I make pasta for the kids but there's no ketchup (ketchup? with pasta? Yes, I know, but they like it) so they are not happy and we have a big argument.

Incidentally, I have a friend who disciplines her kids by telling them to stop what they are doing, go and stand in the corner and think about their behaviour for a minute. It works for her. I tried it with mine, they just looked at me as though I had brain damage and carried on killing each other. What is the magic trick?

I bath the children, then mop up the bathroom before the people downstairs drown over their cheese fondue. At 7.45 I start putting the children to bed and have total success by 8:45.

By now, all I feel like doing is having a bath, a boiled egg and a cup of tea before disappearing under my duvet with a magazine, but it's time to make dinner number two for my husband, sister and her boyfriend. So I boil some potatoes, cut the cheese (haha), prepare the table for raclette and finally sit down with a well-deserved glass of wine and a cigarette.

They all arrive within two minutes, looking relaxed, refreshed and carrying one small, designer bag each.

"How was the trip?" asks my husband, giving me a kiss.

"Hard work" I reply, draining my glass of wine.

"Why?" he asks, quite innocently. "What happened?"

Men have no idea!!!

 My romantic comedy, Just Like a Movie, is available on all Amazon sites.