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

Belle de Neige

Thursday, 31 December 2009

To my friend

No. There's something I was meaning to tell you.
It would have made you laugh.
We haven't had that conversation we were going to have, about that thing.
Or gone to that place we said we'd go. Had that big adventure.
What about that experiment we were going to try?
I haven't laughed at that hair-brained idea you were going to have.
Or that totally inappropriate comment you were going to make.
I haven't made you that promise you wanted me to keep.
We never solved that problem you were going to tell me about
or shared that secret of mine.
What a terrible unfinished mess. So much left undone. Whose right was it to say 'it's time'? How dare they?
My friend. My love.
Have I failed you precious butterfly? You have slipped from my fingers.
I will never say goodbye.

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.

Sunday, 20 December 2009

And it seemed to me then As of chances the chance furthermost I should see her again...

Celebs spotted: A Halliwell of the Geri variety. Actually she's staying in the chalet opposite ours which belongs to the Beckwiths. And James Martin, that chunky chap off Saturday Kitchen. Wearing a peak cap and looking shifty at the airport. Lewis Hamilton jogging.

Hot ski instructors spotted: 2 (richer pickings down in the mountain I'm told.)

Hot Holiday Hunks: Angus. Again. So cute. Banter was flowing on Thursday propping up the bar:
A: ' Barman! She wants some ice in her drink'
*Clink*
Me: 'Do you mind not defiling my whisky? I like it straight up'
A: 'It'll make it last longer, which means you'll keep sitting here and talking to me'
Me: 'Smooth. More ice please barman.'

After a quiet ciggy he proceeded to quote a Thomas Hardy poem at me. According to Angus Thomas Hardy is to Dorset what Dickens is to London. This sort of cheese is guaranteed to get me every time. Went home. Scribbled my number down and ran back to the bar to give it to him, along with a kiss on the cheek. He looked quite chuffed but if I ever see him again I'll eat my ear muffs.

I think I've just experienced what it truly means to be a seasonaire. Having stayed up until 3am waxing a tile floor on Friday night I spent yesterday driving through snow and ice to drop off the teenage son of a multisquillionaire banker at the airport before collecting aforementioned squillionaire himself and driving him back to the resort. Nerve wracking. I mean, who in their right mind would put me in charge of a 40 grand car and its considerably more valuable contents? The roads were hideous - it took nine hours. By the time I arrived back I was about ready to pack my bags and leave...except the bar opposite my house was full of equally exhausted seasonaires... getting wombasted on jager.

Despite the late hour, I didn't go home. I drank beer. And a friend behind the bar conjured a little bowl of cheese, salami and crisps out of nowhere while everyone else poured sympathy on me and told me I could have a lie in tomorrow. As F-the-Chef said to me on Thursday night, after slaving in a hot kitchen all day over confit duck only to find the broken oven had fucked the whole thing over - 'It's all worth it. You'll see.'

I should be on the slopes right now, since I have the afternoon off before the arrival of more guests in the chalet, but I have been cut down in my prime by a revolting lurgy plus I appear to be teething, which is most uncalled for. So I have made this bar my new office. And lest I forget, I shall now remind myself, I am not on the tube...

Friday, 18 December 2009

Do you know who I am?

Skiing hours: 3 - virgin powder baby!
Hot ski instructors spotted: 1
Hot holiday hunks: 1 (called Angus.... but still)
Tune for the day: Madonna: Like a Virgin

First week of the season is full of ups and downs. One second you feel elated; you're in the surreal alternate universe that bears no resemblance to your life last week, full of fantastic new faces. The next you feel a bit lost and homesick. A bit wrong-footed, because your time is now 85% someone elses and it's a claustrophobic life. Madamoiselle BdN is battling with a slight sense of 'do you know who I am?'

I work for a luxury company who operate under the heading of offering that 'little bit extra'. It's all about folding blankets just so, putting towels in special shapes and arranging toiletries in an anal little dish. So... have been amusing myself, while digging snow and sweeping the decking outside by coming up with wildly inappropriate 'little touches' to add as a welcome to guests. Like building a cute little snow man outside the front door, complete with a hat, carrot nose and little welcome sign, but also holding his giant cock in his hand and smiling. It'd be great for the kids we've got staying next week!

A demain

Wednesday, 16 December 2009

Too cold for snow

Last night I saw fairy dust.

Sometimes when it gets really cold - 7 or 8 below freezing, all the moisture in the air crystalises and forms sparkling diamonds floating and dancing in the air. It's too cold for snow, but this is far more magical.

H and I sat with our noses pressed up against the window for fifteen minutes watching the air twinkling around a huge Christmas tree by the chalet balcony. And then I looked at my watch and realised it was 6.30pm. This time last week I was on the tube.

Tuesday, 15 December 2009

We Ski

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.

A demain...