Mistletoe and Mayhem: A cosy, chaotic Christmas read!. Catherine Ferguson

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СКАЧАТЬ stomach turns over with vague dread.

      But I tell myself that whatever happens, it’s sure to be an improvement on the Sunday we got up at stupid-o’clock and journeyed to Wales – yes, that’s right, another country – to take part in the world’s premier Bog Snorkelling Championships.

      (Yes, you did read that correctly. And no, it wasn’t just an excuse for a drunken jolly. It involved actual snorkelling equipment and a real live, smelly bog.)

      All great fun.

      Ha-ha!

      Nathan said it would be a laugh and a great workout into the bargain but he’d only do it if I took part as well. So I agreed. But only because he offered an attractive inducement. Dinner at a posh restaurant that didn’t only cater for vegetarians. Usually when we dine out, we go to Beansprouts! (That’s their exclamation mark, not mine.) Nathan can obviously take his pick from the menu there and it’s fine by me because I can always find something I like. But this place he was offering to take me had things like fillet steak on the menu and was really rather swanky.

      How could I refuse?

      Also, I didn’t want my wonderfully adventurous boyfriend thinking me boring for not joining in with the snorkelling shenanigans. Labelling me a stick-in-the-mud.

      So I got stuck in a muddy bog instead.

      And slap my thigh, but it was hilarious!

      The bit in the car where I had to squeeze my chafing flesh into a too-small wetsuit (left by one of Nathan’s skinnier exes) – my, we did laugh.

      Then lining up in the pouring rain with other assorted freaks dressed in snorkels and flippers – something to tell the grandkiddies!

      And finally, battling along a foul-smelling trench filled with bug-infested bog water with spectators whistling and cheering us on – well, what can I say? Memories are made of this.

      Nathan, of course, approached it with the same intense concentration as he would a heat in the Olympics. And he won. Naturally.

      Just missing the world record by a whisker was a little disappointing, so obviously he’ll be returning next time to try to smash the winning time. (I’ve told him I have a hair appointment that day.)

      Nathan’s satnav finally, after a two-hour journey, brings us to the car park of a large red-brick building in the middle of town.

      I have to say, I’m confused.

      What are we climbing? There’s not a hill in sight.

      I glance around me. Nope. Completely flat.

      So what…?

      I catch sight of the sign over the main door.

      ‘Er, Nathan.’

      I indicate the sign and he frowns as the penny drops.

      ‘Okay,’ he says slowly. ‘So not a climbing ball challenge. A climbing wall.’

      He glances at me and shrugs. ‘Well, never mind, we’ve come all this way so let’s check it out.’

      He gathers up our gear and we head into the building.

      As soon as I enter, I can tell this is definitely not for us.

      A gaggle of kids are tearing around by the reception desk as their mums try to simultaneously pay and keep them in check. The average age – not counting us – appears to be about nine.

      ‘Nathan, I don’t think…’

      But he’s already gone over to check out the climbing wall that’s visible through a large picture window, so I stand for a while and watch the kids.

      The boy causing most of the mayhem is the ginger-haired one in the Harry Potter T-shirt. He keeps dodging behind the girls and yanking their ponytails really hard, making them shout out in pain. He sees me watching and pulls a face.

      I’m about to join Nathan and persuade him a nice long walk would be a good alternative. But I suddenly realise we’ve been spotted by the event organiser, a tall, horsy-looking woman in a blue tracksuit with big front teeth and huge glasses.

      ‘Halloooo!’ She canters across the reception area and grabs our arms. ‘How super! Some grown-ups taking part!’ She’s wearing thick red lipstick, much of it smeared on her teeth. ‘My name’s Mrs Grieves.’ We do a hearty shake of hands. ‘What do you think of our splendid new climbing wall?’

      I smile apologetically. ‘It looks – well, super – but I’m afraid we didn’t realise it would be mostly children…’

      I glance at Nathan for back-up.

      But he seems fascinated by the wall.

      It looks pretty scary to me. It’s massive, for a start, with lots of hand and footholds in different colours.

      ‘So how long has this facility been here?’ Nathan asks, sounding genuinely interested, and my heart sinks.

      Mrs Grieves starts giving us an enthusiastic rundown of the facts and figures.

      I tune out.

      I’m watching a kid, who looks no older than ten, scaling this terrifying-looking edifice with the dexterity of a monkey. He’s almost half-way up, at least fifteen feet off the ground. What if he falls?

      He turns slightly sideways then swings his leg upwards, aiming for a blue foothold. But it’s obviously trickier than it looks because it takes him three attempts to get there.

      My heart is in my mouth.

      What is his mother thinking of? I know he’s in a harness, but if he slips he’ll swing free and collide with the wall, and that could be very nasty indeed.

      ‘Come on. You’ll love it!’ Mrs Grieves rubs my arm briskly. Her eyes behind the specs look huge.

      ‘Yeah, we’ll have a go,’ Nathan says. ‘I’ve been wanting to try it ever since I heard about these things.’

      My stomach revolts at the very thought but Mrs Grieves seems determined.

      The obnoxious ginger kid points at me. ‘That woman’s scared,’ he announces to everyone with a curl of his lip. ‘And her trousers are too small.’

      I narrow my eyes at him, suddenly horribly self-conscious and praying there’s no camel toe situation in evidence. (I can’t check now, obviously.)

      But that settles it. I’m doing the climb.

      I mean, how difficult can it be?

      If these kids can scale a bloody wall, surely I can!

      Fifteen minutes later, I’m clinging on for dear life, praying that death will come quickly. Sweat is pooling under my arms and trickling into my hairline.

      I’m only about ten feet off the ground but might as well be СКАЧАТЬ