Ski—Heil!

Recently 21 Vic. students all had the same idea for a ski holiday and so by sheer coincidence or mental telepathy or some such thing met together in the Tararua Lodge on Mt. Ruapehu.

Pam Beck and those who arrived with her at two o'clock on the Sunday morning tired and cold, expected a reception committee, which was not there so decided to wake the rest of us very effectively with "Three cheers for Hillary!"

Bernic O'Shea was unanimously elected leader and immediately made out a roster of dally duties. The boys proved themselves good cooks—quantity if not quality—we didn't starve! Not those lucky enough to be at the vultures table anyway, which made sure of the biggest and bent helpings.

You can identify these crazy ski enthusiasts (not pronounced she on this trip) around the college by their brown faces, bruised bodies and faraway looks, dreaming of ski grounds of course. But how can we explain the wonderfully-changing colour of Diedre Cotton's face?

Technical note: Lean forward on those skis but not fur enough to kiss the rocks that get in the way! Intellectual arguments were held after coffee and liqueurs each evening—one of the recurring subjects being the superiority of the male. I'm afraid we of the fairer sex will have to admit that we were far surpassed by men on the ski fields—Bernie. Claude. Peter McGill and Doc Close being notable.

For good clean fun—cheer without beer, friendship without hankey-pankey, hair that turns to icicles at sub-zero temperatures, ice cream every night for dinner, rats to talk to when lonely, dried apricots for lunch at the crater lake, an increased repetoire of Varsity songs—skling's the thing! This time pronounced sheing.

Word of warning—don't take your drinks (woops slip!) slopes straight. Start training now and join as on our next trip.

—Paddy.