Tales of catastophe, sex and squalor from the Alpine Underbelly...

Belle de Neige

Friday, 25 December 2009

Auschwitz? Huh.

Burning the candle at both ends? Ha! I laugh in the face of it. More like blow torching the fucker from all angles then plunging it into liquid hot magma.

I went skiing today on a total of 2 hours' sleep having gone to bed at 5am after possibly the most debauched Christmas eve of my life.Skiing is, it turns out, a fail safe cure for hangovers of any kind. Suffusing the body with cold crisp fresh air and a bit of adrenaline soon puts paid to any feelings of sleep-deprived jadedness.

Ok, so ski seasons are hardcore. Much more hardcore than I can have possibly imagined. Late to finish work, early to rise, hills to walk up, elements to battle with, jager grenades to injest, 8-hour airport transfers, cleaning to do, meals to serve, balconies to sweep free of snow...and somewhere in all of this you are supposed to ski, or at least slide, on some of this neige stuff they keep harping on about.

I think I have aged about 10 years in the last week. The bags under my eyes rival those of my eighty-nine year old grandmother. I was musing on just how much of a battering the human body can actually take with Shazzer, who is Iceland working on a farm (don't ask, she does these harebrained things), on the phone this afternoon:

'I don't know how much more of a beasting my body can actually stand!' I said.
'Mate,' she replied in her usual incisive and idiosyncratic tone, 'Don't be a pussy. People survived Auschwitz didn't they?'

Huh. I can see her point. So I guess I'll just keep slogging away until I physically collapse.

Santa would be so proud.

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