Hot Ski Instructors spotted: 0
Celebs spotted: 0
Ski hours: 0
Tune for the day: Talk Talk 'Living in another world'
I was looking at one of those ski holiday posters you see on the tube. You know. They put them there deliberately so when you're standing with your face pressed into some bugger's sweaty armpit and an unidentified cock sticking in your back on the platform at 7.30am on a rainy Tuesday, you can feel reeeeally suicidal. Not just mildly.
'I'm going to do a ski season' I thought.
'Stupendous idea!' said Shazzer, that morning on Skype. 'New York was a great idea but this one's even better! And you can already ski and everything!'
So I quit my posh digital marketing job with a posh audio equipment company in a posh area of London. I relinquished all responsibility for my mortgage onto my ex-fiancee. I quit my life as I knew it. And here I am...a chalet girl. Fancy that.
Am up a mountain. It's sunny. It's snowy. This morning woke up to panoramic snow, ice rock and alpine stillness, blue skies wall to wall and the gentle shushing of skis.
The Boss is a git, but owns a fat Land Rover which I generally swan about in collecting posh clientelle from the airport and delivering them to the piste. F-the-Chef, H and L my colleagues are so far so fabulous. And I'm sleeping in the 15 million euro chalet that will shortly be inhabited by our multisquillionaire guests at the moment so living in the lap of luxury. I hear tomorrow, however, we will be relegated to some slightly simpler accomodation. H, L and I are moving into a pokey studio - it may be a shock to my highly glamourised, spacially selfish system. It's right above a bar full of (I'm hoping) extremely fit French ski instructors though which may well more than compensate for lack of cat swingage.
I also just met the Perez Hilton of the mountains. Complete with shocking pink hair and verbal diarrohea. Shall I feature in his notorious gossip rag at some point? Highly probable.