A wise woman once told me that had she been able to choose an age and simply remain that age for the remainder of her days, that age would have been thirty.
I've heard it said by others too. Thirty is a great age. A fabled age. A coming of age. An age where you can cast off the shackles of your twenties and just be you.
Your twenties are a stressful time when you are hungry to please, earnestly trying to succeed, looking for your place in the world and concerned about what others think of you. Uncertainty, instability and inexperience all seem to conspire to trip you over all the time.
I’m hoping when I hit thirty I can simply stop giving a fuck and start enjoying life.
I am now three years off thirty, and to me the idea that there is a time, just around the corner, when I will be able to call a cunt a cunt without worrying is enormously comforting.
The best thing is I can actually feel myself growing into my thirty-year-old's shoes already.
These days, for example, I have been fed enough crap advice from enough ill-informed arrogant bastards, that I can indeed smell incompetent bull-shit from two hundred yards and have no problem saying so. Actually I’ve always been fairly good at sniffing out bullshit, it’s just in the past I would have kept my mouth shut, whereas now I’m the first to blow the ‘wanker whistle’. It doesn’t always make me popular. But I do find far fewer people attempt to trifle with me nowadays.
How ironic then, with my new-found self confidence and finely tuned Crapometer, to find myself in a job where it’s actually in my remit to pander to and sympathise with every vulgar half wit who crosses my path.
Like for instance the Brazilian family of clearly delicate sensibility who this week complained they couldn’t sleep because their beds were too ‘squeaky’. My gut reaction was to buy them ear plugs and a massive vat of Man-The-Fuck-Up, but what I in fact had to do was apologise and get the chalet host to struggle around and somehow tighten up the bed springs.
Then there was the frankly barking mad Dutch woman, quivering with neuroses, who pulled me on one side yesterday to complain that her chalet host didn’t know how to cook. This guy has been running a chalet all season.
She is one of those people that stands way to close to you and invades your personal space when they speak to you. Since she hadn’t yet actually had the opportunity of eating a meal prepared by the host I enquired as to how she had come to this conclusion.
‘Well…he was touching the food with his hands’ she replied.
‘Erm’ I said, ‘Isn’t it quite normal prepare food with your hands?’
‘He was mixing something with his fingers. It’s just I have my grandchildren with me’ she explained, ‘and their parents get very worried about this kind of thing.’
Fucksake - I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Gordon Ramsay touch some food once on telly. Yeah. I’m pretty sure every motherfucking Michelin star chef on the planet touches food with their hands. Unless you're a Jedi it's quite hard to do anything practical without the use of your hands.
I wanted to say:
‘So am I to understand it that you want to protect your snotty little brood from catching some sort of foul disease from my staff by asking the chalet host to cook your dinner using exclusively the power of the Force, you insane old bag?’
But what I actually said was:
‘Right, yes of course, I understand your concerns. I’ll talk to him about it and if you’d prefer to cook your own meals I can just send him in to do the washing up, if you like.’
Oh the agony of duplicity and insincerity.
I particularly enjoyed today being lectured in the ‘art of management’ by socially inept twerp who couldn’t manage a fart in a space suit. All it requires is the relaxing of one’s sphincter at the appropriate moment, after all, and this person spends so much time speaking out of their anus that one would have imagined they’d have fart management down pat. But no. Their inability to manage not to insult and infuriate everyone in the near vicinity every time they open their mouth is utterly fascinating. Unfortunately this person is in a position of authority and it could be counterproductive to let rip with an enraged speech involving the words ‘Pot, kettle, black, talking and sphincter’, so instead I shall have to opt for a more insidious form of revenge, which will be served extremely cold...
Here endeth the rant.