Autumn has well and truly descended on the homestead. Being a bit of an urchin who spent the first fifteen years of her life (before discovering porn and make-up) lolloping around muddy fields in green garden-centre wellies and capacious 80s hand-me-down sweaters I am a shameless middle class country bumpkin. Autumn is a mystical time in the country and I have always had a paradoxical fondness and antipathy for its dark magic.
Miniature villages of mushrooms and toadstools assemble overnight on the lawn. The air is just a little softer and cooler. There’s mysterious, low-hanging fog over the fields; that melancholic damp, earthy scent of rotting leaves. The swarming and chattering of the starlings at dusk. At nightfall yesterday there was a giant, copper moon.
It’s bittersweet. It reminds me of walking the dog with my Mum in remote muddy fields, the eating of roasts and that most odious of depressing puddings… homemade blackberry and apple pie…Don’t argue! It’s the devil’s own gastronomic torture instrument! You spend hours picking those repugnant berries, getting prickled to fuck by brambles...then the whole gooey affair has a shitty whiff of end-of-the-summer-the-nights-are-fair-drawing-in-and-school’s-just–around-the-corner symbolism that inspires in me the most abject depression whenever I eat it! Which I now absolutely refuse to do. Not to mention the dental misery. Blackberries are tasteless little fuckers and the pips get stuck in your teeth. No. It is despair masquerading in the pajamas of a delicious and innocuous desert!
Like I said, autumn is bittersweet.
But autumn takes on a whole new meaning when there are ski seasons to be had. When you’re not staring down the barrel of a six-month stint commuting in rain-soaked darkness (there was a point last year when for about 2 weeks I saw less than one hour of sunlight per day. Unacceptable). Now, suddenly Autumn is full of promise…
I have found a job in the ski resort.
Okay. I know I may have crapped on last month about bar work being the ‘safest bet’ …yada yada yada…in the name of Zeus’ butthole - don’t you have anything better to do than write down everything I say?
Look people. I sometimes make hasty statements in the heat of the moment. And I sometimes also get seduced. By money. And power. And boys…although that’s quite another story…
My pretties. I have gone over to the dark side. I have become the ‘them’ in the ‘them and us’ scenario.. Corrupted by the prospect of privacy (I’ve got my own apartment!) and the legitimacy of a more sensible job befitting a young lady of my years. Christ knows why but someone thinks I’m reliable enough to be saddled with some responsibility.
This is all a roundabout way of saying I have to spend the next six months being an enormous bitch, hypocrite and cantankerous bossy boots (quite looking forward to the last bit) by bollocking hapless teenaged chalet staff for doing what I did last year. It’s a good thing I already know every excuse in the book for missing breakfast service, losing float money and leaving cum-stains on chalet furniture. They won’t be putting anything past me.
Skater Boy is already prancing about with glee at the prospect of an in-resort ally with a bit of leverage. Yes, indeed, there will be a number of unsuspecting young spriglettes under the watchful eye of Madmoiselle Neige this season. Poor wee things. And Skater Boy will be like a pig in shit at the prospect of getting his grubby mitts on a few of them.
He: ‘I’m making a list. I’m calling it 101 ways to abuse BdN's new-found power for pleasure purposes.’
Me: ‘I see. How much will you pay me not to warn them about your wily ways? And that you’ve even shagged me, in fact’
He: ‘Do you want us to fall out?’
God help me.