Friday, 24 December 2010
Sunday, 12 December 2010
You haven’t heard from me in a while. I know. I’m sorry. Contrary to popular belief Mademoiselle Neige has not disappeared up her own backside, given up writing, moved to Mongolia and married a goat, or lost all her fingers in an unfortunate saw-related incident, rendering her unable to type. No. I am in fact back up the mountain....but have been sucked into the corporate void of that most idiosyncratic of beasts – the Tour Operator’s Management Training Week. Followed by the arduous ‘Staff Training Week’ and the ominous, terrifying shadow of ‘Set Up Week'.
Yes shoppers. That roughly translates as 14 hour-days on accounts spreadsheets and customer services role-play exercises. Shudder. 18-hour days making inventories and digging shit out of a grubby store room (the newly christened ‘Store room of DESPAIR') and delivering it to various chalets.
At 2am on Saturday morning I was standing in a 2 metre square cupboard swigging aggressively from a bottle of rose and ticking things off a clipboard:
‘One wooden spoon to chalet xxxx please!’
‘No more wooden spoons in the store, sorry’
‘Fuck! Any blenders?’
‘Fuck! Any roasting tins?’
‘What the fuck are my staff meant to cook with? Ski poles?’
It’s not just me...but SbH too. An opportunity....came up.... shall we say. Just a day before his official ski rep training week with another unmentionable TO, someone waved the words ‘manager’ and ‘staff’, a cheque, an apartment and an extended ski pass under SbH’s nose and he buckled like a Volvo's seat belt. Yes. It’s true. We are managing a ski resort each. I have no idea how this happened. None whatsoever. We must both interview extraordinarily well.
‘No. Just no. Nothing you can ever say will make me believe it,’ said a mutual friend, R – The Man of Leisure – last week after finding out SbH has a job in management.
‘But I’m wearing a company jacket’ protested SbH looking slightly hurt, and waving his company mobile around proudly.
‘I don’t care if you’ve got the corporate logo tattooed to your arse, dude. I don’t believe it.’
Another friend – W – merely sat and laughed hysterically at us both, when we told him. And various cynical comments were made on Facebook such as:
‘How on earth did that one happen?’
‘What’ is going on????? Please explain’
‘I am confused’
‘Beyond stupid but highly highly amusing. I reckon they want their company to go out with a bang this year’
And my own personal favourite:
‘That’s just silly’
There have been various escapades which I will tell you all about. But for now, Mademoiselle Neige would like to personally thank the tour operator for which she works, for:
- Giving her two migraines in two weeks
- Making her into that twat who is always on their mobile phone. I hate that guy.
- The worst sex ever:
‘Can I have a blow job please?’ SbH asks me two mornings ago. We’d both had about four hours’ sleep after an 18-hour day. ‘No’ I said. ‘I can’t be bothered......none of my muscles work. I can’t move. But I’m so horny!’
The resultant semi-conscious (loosely) sexual activity that we managed was closely reminiscent of trying to get (in SbH’s words) a raw frankfurter through a keyhole. Lethargically. ‘That was the worst sex ever’ he said afterwards. ‘I’m going for a shower’.