In meribar at the first Ram Raid gig of the season

Various Up dating and the Meribar opening party

So... I am tired.  I do not think I have ever been this tired in my life. And I haven't even stepped on a piste yet. Not one foot. There have not been any ski boots on my feet, no big planks strapped to them while I hurtle somewhat uncontrollably downhill. In fact I haven't even done it slowly while in complete control. And my Three Valley lift pass had been sat on my bedside table for almost a week now.

I have done a lot of paperwork. And sent a lot of emails. And moved a hell of a lot of furniture around.

I have also ordered a new duvet and two sets of bedding. This season is all about the comfort. When I look back on this season in many years time, I want to look back and think, 'well maybe I didn't live the crazy rock and roll, bed hopping life style that most seasonaires live, but at least when I went to bed I was really bloody comfy'. No crappy single bed with blankets on for me! I have two single beds pushed together AND a 13.5 tog duvet!

Bloody hell I live an exciting life, you only realise it when you sit down to write about it!

But through this haze of work and duvets I have managed to get out of the hotel and even have a drink. And last night I was totally and utterly desperate for a drink. Last night was the Meribar's opening party.

 Now I have written before about how Meribar is one of my favourite places to be on earth. It is my place to write, it is my place to get out of the hotel and my place to just sit and listen to live music and zone out totally.

Now this year the Meribar has new management, and luckily I already know them all. Go in and say hi, they are cool people. My one piece of Meribar advise is have one of their home made toffee vodkas. It is potentially the nicest drink ever invented and will, very soon become something that people visit the Meribar for. I am convinced it will make them famous.

Last night hey were also testing the go-pro pint where a pint of beer is attached to a go-pro and you get filmed drinking it. Now this is something I can promise I will never ever try. The angles of that camera are never ever going to be flattering. I wouldn't even consider a go-pro Gin.

There is of course the usual apres bar type things, the yard of ale, the thousands of jager bombs, a plethora of slightly scruffy looking young people milling around aimlessly. But although the staff look a bit scary they are actually brilliant, the place is comfy and warm and the drinks are cheap. The music is always loud and good (I hear tell on the grapevine that the Ram Raid are back for their usual Wednesday apres spot this season).

They have also updated the menu, several samples of which were floating round last night (I had to restrain myself from just snatching a whole plate from a passing waitress) (I had by that point consumed far to many alcoholic mixtures of gin, jager and toffee vodka and had become slightly distressed about how I would not be able to find food before my coco pops at 8.30 the next morning)

Anyway it was a great night. Everyone should go.

I am now too tired to remember what I am supposed to be writing? Who am I? Where am I? Where is my duvet?

Back in Meribel and the end of two long weeks

So here I am, back in Meribel. Last time I was here I was convinced I wouldn't be back again. Not back working anyway. I thought I would probably be back for a nice holiday at some point. But working, for five months. Not a chance.

And yet here I am, in the mountains, in front of a fire, looking out to the beautiful snow covered mountains, on my day off. Life seems actually quite blissful at the moment.

I have only been here a couple of days, after two weeks training.

As I have mentioned before, training last year was a mass of drinking, bed hopping and general bitchy behaviour. Gossip circulated round bleary-eyed hungover people every breakfast.

 My first clue that this year's training was not going to be the same was at the first breakfast, when, as I was sat eating my bread and ham and filling up with tea, several people in running gear paraded into the dinning room. I was aware of the sudden interest in early morning mountain running amongst some members of the team as my own room mate, Miss F, had herself got up at 6am that very morning. She had also woken me up to ask if I wanted to accompany her on her jaunt into the cold and I restrained myself from swearing at her. However I realised that morning that she was not the only one taking up this bizarre form of early morning torture and she was being joined by several others. 

I was further taken aback by just how many alert and awake people were sat merrily talking away at the breakfast. They weren't even talking about the goings on the night before. It turned out it wasn't just me who had gone to bed early. It was everyone.

Don't get me wrong, after about a week, a couple of rumors started appearing, there was the odd person having too much to drink. But it was all quite tame really. It was lovely. Miss F and myself concluded that although there had been less drinking, less gossip there had actually been much more laughing and we had actually enjoyed ourselves a lot more. And as a bonus neither one of us had actually fallen asleep during lectures. Does this make us sad? Old? Probably but I don't care one little bit.

This doesn't mean there was no drinking. There was quite a lot of drinking on the last night and all in all it was a very pleasant evening. Miss F went to bed early. I didn't. I then went on to try and wake her up when I got in by hissing at her loudly and asking if she was asleep. She did not respond and I went on to do all my packing, quite drunk, at one in the morning. Fun times.

So back to Meribel. Currently enjoying my day off. The only issue is that we have to go all the way into town for our dinner, and we forgot to stock up on food for breakfast and lunch so we are currently dining on the delicacies of dry coco pops, beans and BBQ crisps. If anyone would like to come and show me how to turn on the gas in the hotel so we can at least eat some pasta I would really appreciate it.  Way too lazy for the walk into town and back to the only shop open in Meribel.

So far in Meribel I have eaten a burger at La Tav - bree and bacon, very nice. And dropped into Scotts for their opening night. It was good, they brought us free food.

Seasonaire in the City is back in Meribel!!!!!!!!!!

Various mid training thoughts and the slight problem of men

So tonight I really feel like writing. I haven't written in a while partly because I have been so tired at the end of the day that I couldn't be bothered, partly because this year there has been far less drinking and bed hopping than last year so there hasn't been much to write about and partly because I left my laptop charger in England so have had to use my room mate's Macbook and I can't really figure out how it works.

So things have slowly been happen, nothing major . But I have quietly soaking up information like a sponge, watching and making notes on interesting snippets.

Today however I was sat waiting for someone and ended up sitting by the side of a bunch of chefs on a break. As I started listening to what they were saying and as I was sat there right beside them I started taking notes. I sat next to them for a good half hour writing down everything they said. Not that they were saying anything interesting, but what they were saying totally backed up everything that the fashion designer and myself have been saying about chefs for some while.

Don't get me wrong, my loyal readers will know that  I have had my fair share of favorites when it comes to chefs. But the fashion designer has always been deeply disturbed by my interest in such men, saying that she cannot figure out for the life of her why I am attracted to grungy chefs. She came out with the absolute classic that I think all single girls should take note of and remember;
'you cant expect a man to fancy you any more because you do that playing it hard to get thing and then some tart gives it up straight away and then men thinking 'why should I bother' ' I am not sure if she was advocating casual sex and flinging yourself at men, because she is the most prudish person I have ever met (she spend most of the plane trip to France talking loudly about why she did not like sex). 

Anyway enough of my man moans. Lets go back to when I was sat next to the chefs noting down all their ridiculous conversations. I might at some point write it out it full, it really is worth a read, but just so you know their topics of conversation were 'who had brought lube with them on the season and the reasons for this, this was brought up by the person in question's room mate who just wanted to embarrass him and just led to lots of jokes about anal sex, who their 'kitchen bitches' were, kebabs made out of a mixture of dog, goat and cat, burping and farting and their comedy value. And then one said 'Well there is nothing like a shaved dog in the afternoon' and they all burst out into hysterical laughter . I'm not even going to try and interpret that one. I have absolutely no idea.

The fashion designer's view of chefs.

'All chef are dirty. They are dirty and should have tongue piercing to prove they are dirty and should all be sent somewhere foreign. That isn't France...

Russia. There is plenty of space in Russia.

And under no circumstances am I coping off with one like you did'

This was the diatribe that the fashion designer launched into while sat in my bed just now.

Deja Vu

Having slight Seasonaire déjà Vu when it comes to a beautifully cooked bit of lamb at management training and the eying up the man who cooked it. Probably for the best if I just excused myself and went to my room.

Packing and the perils of luggage allowance.

So...I fly really soon. Unbelievably soon. And the one thing that is standing in the way between me and that plane is my packing. I thought it would be easier this time. I thought that this year I would know exactly what to pack and all the useless stuff I brought last year would be left behind. I would be a packing queen. A capsule wardrobe, a limited make up bag and that would be it.

No that is not it.

Yes this year I have weeded out all the ridiculous things I took last time. But once you have packed smart work clothes, ski clothes, ski boots, snow boots, casual clothes and going out clothes there really isn't a lot of room left in your suitcase and you are way past your luggage allowance.

And packing itself is a hugely traumatic experience. You spend the whole time trying to walk through the next six months in your head, desperately trying to see if you can remember if you have forgotten anything and panicking about what happens if you forget that really important thing that you cannot remember. And as I am sat writing this right now, you can tell I am putting off packing even further.

So yesterday I called up to add ski carriage on, which is an extra 12kg (this is sneaky because my boots only weigh 5kg) (I know this because I have weighed everything I own).

There, I thought, I now have 32kg to play with. That's more than enough. And I have hand luggage so I can put some heavy stuff in there.

Then today, while putting the carefully sorted piles of clothes that have been scattered around my room for days into my suitcase I released that my suitcase really was not of a suitable size and I would have to pay to split my stuff between two bags (I am flying Easy Jet by the way who like to make traveling with them vastly complicated and expensive, why can't they just let you buy another 20kg bag???) Anyway so I have now spent £36 on baggage allowance.

And after weighing all my stuff it comes to 26kg! I have a whole 6kg free that I have paid for.

Time to go shopping! (yes that is another packing avoidance plan)

The Long Last Weekend

Its been an eventful weekend for Seasonaire in the City, although the city I have been eventful in is no longer London but my beautiful, Northern, industrial, ram-shacked home city.

It started with the last girly glam-ed up evening for a long while when my bestest friend in the whole world Miss T, the mother of my beautiful god son, threw a 1940s themed birthday party. There was an unbelievable amount of time spent getting ready. It was virtually the whole day, from the outfit choosing, to the walking to Morrisions to buy Champagne (obviously top quality at Morrisions) to the hair removal, nail painting, hair curing, false eyelash sticking and make up applying to the unbelievably large amount of hairspray involvement. And I must admit, and I don't often say this, but I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. 

And the night went with a bang. Miss T looked beautiful, she had decorated her house for the occasion and everyone was suitably impressed. People had all made an effort (even if one guest had ordered a navy suit that was two sizes too small, still its the thought that counts). 

After several glasses of champagne and some rather potent punch, I kicked off my heels, pulled on some much less sexy boots and we headed out to a local rock bar. I have rarely been to a rock bar since hitting the legal drinking age (not through choice, I quite like them, it just hasn't worked out that way), and I have certainly never been to one is a floor length red gown and fur wrap. Iv also never danced to Rancid before but after the potent punch I could dance to anything (except actual dance music which I will never agree to).

I even started talking to a man (which also, as you will know my lovely readers very rarely happens and when it does leads to comical disasters). He subsequently (because we exchanged telephone numbers) asked me if I wanted to go for a ride on his motorbike (this is where I can foresee the comical disasters). 

Now I can just imagine my mother's reaction if I told her I was going round the Yorkshire Dales on the back of a motorbike. It would mainly resolve around her being really mad that if I got injured I wouldn't be able to go do my next season. 

'Calm down mum', I would say, 'He works at a hospital, he is a Diagnostic Radiographer' 

This is where she would hit me round the head with something heavy and tie me to a chair to make sure that I didn't get on any form of transport with less that four wheels before I got on the plane to France . 

On a completely different note, today I got an email from Miss P. She is as ever fabulous and had some big news to pass on that she has been building up to tell me for a long time. The bad news is that she has hung up her seasonaire shoes and the good is that she has moved into the world of proper jobs and a proper boyfriend. Not only that but she said some amazing things that gave me such a boost, at a time when things seem to be moving so fast and completely out of control. 

Miss P you know I love you and I always will. Your email had be blubbering throughout Strictly Come  Dancing (my mum thought I was drunk and that I was overwhelmed by Kimberley's possible eviction).

A sad sad day

Yesterday was a very sad day. Not only did I pack up and leave my house but I also had to throw my Secret Santa present from the Rep, in the bin. The red snowy slipper have seen their last morning drudge round the kitchen. 

I was very sad having to give them to the dustbin men but I had no choice. I have put them through the washing machine several times and last time I knew it had to be the last. Because the cardboard all melted and I had to spend some time setting it all back into place. But after several weeks wear the smell was getting prohibitive. 

So here is a tribute to my slippers. My special present from the rep. I love you rep!

Hell is a spinning class!

You know people are intrinsically racist when they say 'I'm not racist but..', and today I caught myself saying 'I don't hate exercise but..'.

Some people would think it is easy getting ready for a season, and so far for me it has been very pleasant.

It has mainly involved shopping. I have bought shoes from Ugg and Doc Martin, neon green sallies and bolly goggles from the ski show, pink sallies from a little shop in Skipton. I have stocked up on essentials in H and M and bought new underwear from Victoria's Secrets. New make up has been purchased from Bobbi Brown at Liberty and a new laptop is on order (as mine is just about being held together at the moment with ski tape and elastic bands).

I also had to say goodbye to my favourite foods in London, I went for Greek, Chinese and Haagen Diaz ice-cream.

Doesn't that all sound lovely (if a tad expensive)???

But in focusing on such lovely things, as my mother spent some time reminding me, I have missed a major part of getting ready for a life in the mountains.

Making some kind of effort towards getting fit.

It was a little shock to the system (that's a lie it was a huge shock to the system) last year that wherever you want to go, at some point to you have to do some serious uphill hiking. I have always done a lot of walking but before I moved to Meribel rarely had to walk up mountains. It was an uphill walk to work and an uphill walk at the end of a night out when the rep constantly forced us to walk home, no matter how much we begged to get a taxi. And although it got much easier I was always lacking behind the rep and the childcare manager as they hot footed it up at the speed of light.

There is also the skiing/ fitness issue. Seasonaires get injured at the beginning of the season when they are unfit and the end of the season when they think they are invincible mega, Olympic standard skiers.  Which they are not, they just know the mountain area and are drunk.

So, today I went to a spinning class. For those who don't know what spinning is, its an exercise class on a bike. It is always involves a scary, shouty man at the front screaming 'faster, faster' and loud music with a fast beat which is almost impossible to keep up with. Several years ago I went twice a week, but haven't done it in a very long time (because I'm lazy and am convinced that there must be a much more fun form of exercise I haven't discovered yet) Within three minutes I was sweating, within five minutes I was convinced I had died and gone to hell and within seven I was certain the 45 minute class must almost be over.

But after about fifteen I knew it was doing me some good and I should just stop moaning (moaning in my head as I wouldn't have dared moan to either the man leading the class or my mother) and just get on with getting fit.

And I have booked another class tomorrow and one on Thursday.

Thank God I have lots more shopping to look forward to.

Enjoying raclette at the ski show!

It's amazing but not quite as good as when you have it straight from under the hot light!

On a different note I have also just tried some sticky toffee cheese! Odd but strangely satisfying!

Ready to Apres

Today was my day off and after a day ironing, packing and watching classic TV such as Jeremy Kyle. About  half three I wandered with a friend into town. We walked past a cocktail bar and I suddenly had a huge desire to go in and have a drink. And the more I thought about it the mort I wanted a jager bomb.

Then I realised that it was Apres time. That in the not too distant future, four pm will be prime drinking time.

The girl I was with was a little bit shocked that I was being pulled towards the drink so early in the day. In the world we inhabit together four pm is prime working time.

So, in the end I did not have a drink, and in fact even though we went to the pub much later I didn't have a drink then either (I do have work tomorrow) (not a thought that will be worrying me in the future).

However on Thursday I will be going to the Ski and Snowboard show at Earls Court. I cannot wait. And I'm going in Thursday evening to make the most of the apres that will be going on. I'm also going with my ski obsessed mother. I'm hoping that if I get my mum a couple of jager bombs she might become very free with her credit card. I'm after a new coat, some goggles, some black snow boots, some neon yellow sallies and potentially some skis. How many jagers do you think that will take???

Alcohol is not my friend (when other people drink it)

The other night my City job had a staff party. It was part leaving party for those of us who only work there in the summer, part leaving party for a man who is moving on and part celebration of recent successes. It was the first time we have all got together after work to spend time as a group. If there is something seasonaires do a lot it is spend time together outside of work.

One particular young man at the party slightly over did the red wine and at the end of the evening it was down to me and a couple of others to escort that gentlemen to where he was spending the night, which happened to be very near to my house.

I don't know what happened to me but without thinking about it I was transformed in to 'looking after drunk people mode'. I told him that if he was sick in the car, I would be really mad. His drink addled brain couldn't quite understand why I was pre-empting vomit. What he didn't know was quite what a large number of drunk people I have dealt with in my time.  I have seen them all, happy drunks, angry drunks, horny drunks, sleepy drunks, crying drunks, hungry drunks and vomiting drunks.

I have sat and watched two inebriated women eat pizza, not noticing that the entirety of the topping was sliding off the pizza, down their chins, down their front and into their laps. And then when they did notice the tomato and cheese sat on their jeans, pick it up with surprise and eat it.

I have comforted girls when they were hysterically crying wine tears (Miss P, fashion designer you know who you are). Usually over the ineptitude of the males in the species.

I have dealt with the vomit, I have been talking to a very drunk girl when she suddenly, out of the blue, vomited down herself, into her own hands, outside of a bar, at about 6pm, wiped her hands and then carried on drinking. At this point, chef laughed and told me it was a tactical chunder. This was too much, even for me to deal with.

I have had men try to come on to me, I have been picked up and carried. I have prevented women getting naked in bars and I have gone to sleep trying to block out the sounds of drunken sex. I have put people to bed. I have seen the wounds that occur when drunk people go skiing topless and fall over (ice burn is not pretty)  Most of all I have listened to people talk absolute crap to me for hours on end.

I have dealt with the horrific morning after fall out. The midnight fights, the midnight feasts, the drunk off hand comments (the best one being 'I know if I don't pull, when I come back you will have sex with me', that girl was pissed off for days!) I have looked after the girls who went a bit too far with the wrong man (in the mountains most men are the wrong man). I have listened to the stories. I have done the washing after someone woke up in the middle of night and wee-ed all over his room mate's clothes and shoes. I have calmed down angry French men who were a little fed up with the nightly drunken singing. I was told all about when two people got it on in a bubble lift on Wednesday afternoon.

There was usually way too much detail involved in everyone's stories. Way too much.

I'm sure that a lot of drunken behaviour went on that I didn't know about, but gossiping is the number one activity in the mountains, and I usually heard about it one way or another.

I'm not playing the martyr, I got drunk, I did silly things, I was once so drunk I attempted to light the wrong end of a roll up and I have been known to share way too much information myself.

While out to dinner with the Rep last week we were talking about alcohol. About how our alcohol tolerance has gone right down since moving away from the mountains. And the miracles of almost hangover-less mornings. After come discussion about why hangovers just don't have the crippling effects at 1700m that the do on the ground, we concluded that, 'Well in the mountains you just get up and get on with it don't you? You can't just lie in bed feeling sorry for yourself'.

In conclusion, the recent work party was a good re-introduction to the world of the drunken staff, and he was the best behaved drunkard I have ever dealt with. I'm thinking of offering him a job.

Are you ready for music in the mountains yet???

http://www.youtube.com/user/theramraidcouk?feature=results_main

Changes

Things are changing. When I began writing Seasonaire in the City I was fresh off the coach from Meribel starting a new job in the big city, ourcapital city. After so long up a mountain I was missing being away and slightly overwhelmed by the size of the city and the number of people. I was certain I was not going to go back.

Now I am going back.

So in a months time I am not going to be a seasonaire in the city, I am going to be a seasonaire up a mountain in France. With a whole new set of staff members (if they think I haven't already started looking them up on facebook they are wrong!!!)

So over the next few weeks I am slightly changing the format of Seasonaire in the City. I am adding some new things to the blog; including a Meribel review section to review bands I have seen, nights out, pubs, bars raclette restaurants and anything else that takes my fancy. I am also going to regularly update with Meribel news and weather so that those of you stuck in England can feel very jealous of the snow depth.

Don't worry though, I will be keeping up with my regular blog.

And ladies and gentlemen, if you want anything else, don't hesitate to let me know.

List Making Time

The other night I started the first of my long drawn out series of last night outs, farewell parties and goodbyes. My delightful house mate, the wonderful Matt, took me out, and after a very nice evening sitting in the sound box at the Theatre,  we skilfully managed to avoid what was destined to be a terrible double blind date and danced the night away at G.A.Y.

So in the next few weeks I have a night out to a medieval banquet with my friend Hutch, a pub night out with the rep, a work goodbye party, a day out to York with my friend Miss T and my lovely 2 year old godson, a night out in the Victorian Industrial West Yorkshire town I am originally from, again with Miss T and a Christmas Day with the family.

In between all this fun I have to finish at work for the winter, pack up my house, move back home and pack for the mountains. This means I have to start making lists. Lots of lists. There will be lists blue tacked to every wall, ceiling and floor before long. When I was at school I had a boyfriend who said he had never met anyone who planned things to such extremes as I did. A Olympic gold medal winning planner.

The first time I went to France I didn't know what to expect so I couldn't prepare as well as I should and I had to get several things sent out; a Hungarian goose down duvet, a set of speakers, several copies of BBC History magazine, a second pair of snow boots, a very thick woolly hat)

At the moment I'm currently thinking of making a list of what kind of lists (and the sub lists) I have to make.

1. Things I have to buy before I go
a) Skiing things
b) Food that I have to take that I miss while I am out there (Marmite, earl grey tea, most forms of biscuit)
c) The cosmetics and beauty items I have to buy that I absolutely cannot run out of while I am away (foundation, mascara, dry shampoo, razors, hair removal cream)

2) Things I have to do before I go (Pack, Arrange for extra luggage on the aeroplane, Take all the things out my suitcase that I don't actually need, Get my hair cut (I rather stupidly got a fringe put in about six weeks ago that might stop me seeing anything about two months into my six month trip), complete my food hygiene course)

3) Types of food I am going to miss and so will have to eat before I go (Chinese, curry, fish and chips, mum'a roast dinner)

4) Things I absolutely don't need to pack because I do not need them (bikini, 20 different nail varnish colours)

5) Things I have to persuade the doctor to give me a six month supply of

And this is not ever going anywhere near the list of things I actually have to pack.

Its going to be be a very busy couple of weeks. And I'm not sure, once I have made all my lists, whether I am going to have the time to do anything on my lists.

Line up Line up - its multivitamin time.

Early mornings at the hotel were pretty much always the same. Even though I lived the furthest away, I often got their first, followed by a succession of blurry eyed, sleepy people, usually complaining/ gossiping about what people had got up to the night before (he wee-ed in my shoes, she was such a total bitch, I woke up and they were shagging RIGHT NEXT TO ME) On more that one occasion I was shown pictures of people  who were so drunk they had fallen asleep naked and their loving friends had taken pictures of them, sometimes there was one person in the picture, sometimes there was two. Coffee machines were turned on, cereal was transferred into bowls and I went to wake up the one person who had been too drunk to turn on their alarm (by the end of the season I had woken up every member of hotel staff). On the worst occasion one boy had to be physically dragged out of bed before he would wake.

One morning I stood in the kitchen and looked around me at the mass of grey , miserable looking faces, all moving at the speed of snails and suddenly I had a thought, every single person in the room (except me) looked close to death and worryingly lacking in several vital vitamins. If they died or were rushed to hospital, it would be me who would have to call their mothers to tell them their child's constant drinking and inability to eat fruit and vegetables when not being forced by a loving parent had taken the ultimate toll.

My own mother was very worried about vitamin deficiency and had been sending me a pack of multi vitamins on average every three weeks. And as a dutiful daughter and not much fancying a visit to a French hospital had been taking them regularly.

Chef was the worst of the lot, his skin had actually turned slate grey. Not wanting to deal the death of a staff member I knew I had to do something and I hunted out the bottle of vitamins that had come in the post from England the day before.

I lined everyone up in the kitchen, chef first and gave each of them a vitamin shot. I was a bit worried that their bodies wouldn't be able to cope with the sudden rush of healthy things and would start immediately to reject the tablets. Fortunately this didn't happen. Some tried to ridicule me for thinking they needed it but nevertheless they all took it, with considerably less persuading and threatening than I was expecting.

Through out the day, the story spread and different staff members sort me out in secret, like I was some kind of drug pusher, so they could have one too.

The childcare manager, who didn't eat any fruit and veg anyway, didn't like them because they were orange flavoured. The rep had two.

My first ever visit to a spa.

The fashion designer and myself had, for the first time ever, the same day off. It was also pay day. My ever so slight aversion to skiing, plus the fact it was the end of season and the snow was melting fast meant that it was decided we should visit the spa in Meribel centre. The fashion designer seemed to be some kind of spa junky, and as she hadn't visited one in a while, was suffering some little what. I had never been to a spa before. I had never actively avoided them, they just really weren't on my radar.

Firstly she informed me that it just wasn't the done thing to wear a bikini in a spa. I didn't have a swimming costume so she lent me a top that covered my middle section. It didn't seem to matter that this top, although it seemed to be made out of Lycra (not a material I tend to go for in clothes) wasn't actually designed for swimming.

We walked to the centre discussing current events and bumped into one of the Ram Raid who told us how he was going to a talk about the dangers of drug dealing which was being held that night in a cheese shop (that's no joke, he actually was). We told him we were going to the spa. He said some rather strange things and made his goodbyes and we were half way down the road when we realised he thought we were going food shopping.

I don't know what I expected from the spa. I think I thought I was going to have a massage and have mud put on my face and I was going to emerge actually glowing and a stone lighter. This didn't happen. We were given robes (that had rubbed up against god knows how many people's nakedness, I dont care if they have been washed) and we were shown to the shower, sauna, steam room and hot tube. I was slightly disappointed. We were told about the unlimited tea available. I felt better.

The fashion designer - lets re name her the spa nazi - had planned our trip down to the last second. First steam room. This was fine, I don't mind them. Although after about 10 minutes I find it a bit hard to breath. And it's difficult to sit on the seats without sliding off because they are so wet.

Then we go to the sauna. Again I quite like saunas. However the spa nazi believes that you have to be in the sauna for about three hours until your brain boils and your eyeballs explode. I was actually melting and she was complaining it just wasn't hot enough. After a winter in the Alps, a wet April in Yorkshire feels rather tropical. I thought I was going to die and said I was going to check out the hot tube whether she liked it or not.

She came with me

The only other person in there was a fat French man in tiny swimming trunks. They left nothing to the imagination. But it was quite big and I was as far away from him as possible . I spent some time enjoying the bubbles. And then needed a cup of the unlimited tea I had been promised some time (about 20 minutes) earlier.

I was a little confused as to where the tea was. There were two urns. But one contained hot water claiming to be flavoured with elderflower and the other apple and lavender (or some such other non Earl Grey, non English Breakfast not actual tea flavouring)

The spa nazi was in her element. 'This is just soooo good for you' she drawled.

Then she dragged me round and made me do the whole thing again!

Next time I at least want a massage from a hot man wearing a very small towel. And for there to be mud involved. And for me to leave with my skin actually shimmering.

Ok yet another new video from the Ram Raid.

Here is a link to the Ram Raid's new video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DUDKeslAguc&feature=youtube_gdata_player

It mainly features the handsome Jim playing drums, Abe talking about his prowess in the pizza making department and Sean pulling funny faces. They are a multi talented set of very nice boys.


Not sure why the tags for this video include 'bitches' 'hoes' and 'the x factor'. Because I can't see it having anything to do with any of those things
I'm also very impressed with the 1940s aeroplane clip at the beginning. Like a bit of history with my Rock music!

Watch the video, get excited, get ready to order their new CD (and if you do order it, tell them that Seasonaire in the City introduced you to them and maybe, eventually they will give me a free copy)

Don't let the fact they are from Grimsby put you off. It's very Rock and Roll Grimsby.

Just to be fair- The Dominos

The Dominos are playing this Thursday at Agenda, London and next Thursday at The Gable, Moorgate.

Go see them.

They are also asking for song requests. I am writing a long list.

The list may or may not include mysterious girl (ok it does)

New Ram Raid video

Watch, appreciate, look them up, go see them live, buy their stuff.

Get excited

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1YxF1RXwtQM&feature=youtube_gdata_player

The week the geography teacher came to stay.

The childcare manager had gone on about his friend coming to stay for months. In fact he had first brought up the subject on the first day we moved in together. The geography teacher was coming at February half term (obviously the school holidays). By that time we had all settled into the routine of life in the mountains. We knew Meribel like the back of our hands.
The closer we got to the week of his arrival the more excited the childcare manager got. And he pretended he wasn't excited but he was. He was the most excited I had seen him since he found out the rep was coming to live with us.

Sunday night was Toss the Boss night at Jack's, a bar in town. Toss the boss is legendary in Meribel. On a Sunday night every Seasonaire in Meribel packs themselves into Jack's, where, for every round you buy, you roll a dice with the owner. If you score higher, you get the round free. The cynic in me says that this just leads to queuing up for your drink much longer than you ordinarily would have done. And that as half of Meribel is there, the queue for the toilet is astronomical. I am that cynical about it because I never won. However, more often that not, I was so knackered from transfer day I couldn't muster the energy to go. For me, transfer day often meant my alarm went off at 4.30am and I worked right through till 7pm. This did not usually put me in the party mood and when most people were 'Tossing the Boss', I was at home in my PJs.

The Sunday before the arrival of the geography teacher, the childcare manager, the rep and myself were sat in our living room. We were so tired from a knackering transfer day that we were sitting motionless, preserving the tiny bit of energy that we had left so we would be able to make it from the living room to the bedroom. The rep has sweets. She always had sweets.
The childcare manager turned to us both and said 'next week I have to go to Toss the Boss'. He went on to explain that as his friend was coming to stay, he would have to take him out and show him a good time. And that would involve toss the boss. And going out after transfer day. He tried to stir himself up, encourage himself like an athlete before a race, 'I can do it, I can!', and then a little less energetically 'I must, I have too'. Even the thought was making my brain ache, so I went to bed.

The next week rolled around. The child care manger was over excited. I didn't meet the geography teacher on the Saturday he arrived. When I got home from work he was already fast asleep on the sofa. He was still asleep when I went to work at 6 am the next morning. I was on a split shift and managed to have a nice nap in the middle of the day. I was therefore not totally desperate to pass out and I went to Toss the Boss.

It was full of people. And the child cre manager and the geography teacher we all but looking longingly into each others eyes. There was no doubt it was a beautiful bromance.

I didn't win any rounds at Toss the Boss. I went home. Knackered.

It was nice having the geography teacher in the house. He was usually there when I came home from work. And he was always up for a nice chat. And he was fully prepared to gang up on the child care manager, which was always good fun.

Along came wednesday après and luckily I had the afternoon off. I had gone along to Meribar to write some letters and have a pizza. And to get a good table to watch The Ram Raid (not written about them in a while, but they were always there). I had bigged up The Ram Raid to the geography teacher and I could tell he was intrigued.

About fifteen seconds after everyone arrived and interrupted my peaceful perving, the child care manager suggested buying a bottle of toffee vodka. Quite early on he had figured out that us all putting in a couple of euros meant we could buy bottles rather than single shots, and this made it much cheaper. The child care manager's insistence on shots on a Wednesday was almost legendary, and had, amongst other things, led to certain members of staff stripping off and going swimming. It also meant that most people were in bed, wasted, by about 8pm. There were many occasions when I came home after work on a Wednesday and there was half a bottle of toffee vodka on the kitchen work surface and a snoring child care manager asleep with the door open.

So the child care manager managed to squeeze enough money out of us to buy two bottles of toffee vodka and a bottle of apple vodka.

The next hour and a half consisted of drinking shots and me telling people to 'bloody well sit down I can't see The Ram Raid'! This might or might not have got more and more aggressive as the liquid was drained.

When the band was finished I decided to go find food. I quickly decided I couldn't be bothered waiting and should instead go home and make pasta.

When I got home (about 8pm) the child care manager was fast asleep and the geography teacher was making his bed up in the living room.

I considered launching into a conversation about how history was way better than geography (I do like a good argument, especially after a few drinks) but instead put my pjs on (I am at most attractive when in pjs) and made a hot water bottle.

I was a little taken aback by the level of shock that radiated off the geography teacher when said hot water bottle was produced. He was quite rude about it. Comments such as 'no one under 60 has a hot water bottle' and 'they are just for old ladies who have lost the circulation in their legs' were banded about. I told him to sod off. And that my hot water bottle was the only thing that kept me warm at night. I then realised I was drifting in to dangerously embarrassing territory and that I had two options; either go to bed, or try to drunkenly come on to the geography teacher while wearing horrific pyjamas and holding a teddy bear shaped hot water bottle.

I took the hot water bottle to bed. Much (I expect) to the relief of the geography teacher.

The fireman calendar.

So, iv just been home for a few days and picked up some things. Amongst the things I brought back to decorate the blank walls of my rented room was my fireman calendar. That calendar represents one of the biggest disappointments I suffered while living in France (followed by not meeting a single Russian billionaire, let alone a handsome one who wanted to marry me and never being able to finish a raclette).

A few days before New Years two men walked into the hotel. I was someway off but was going over that way so hurried over to see what they wanted. They were talking to the manager who turned to me and told me that they were selling fireman calendars. Meribel fireman calendars.
'You should buy one' the manager said, 'always good to have the local fire service on side' he whispered 'let's not piss them off by not buying one'.
I was not thinking about getting in their good books by buying their calendar. I was thinking about having pictures of attractive firemen on my wall. By this time the rep had come over and her eyes had lit up with the prospect of the the firemen calendar too. We paid €5 for the calendar and the men made a swift exit. We hardly noticed them leave. We were ready to feast our eyes on the firemen.

Then, all gathered round the reception desk, the surprise and the disappointment set in. The calendar was full of pictures of road traffic accidents the Meribel fire service had visited. This is why the men selling it had made a quick exit, they knew it was crap and didn't want us to demand our money back once we had seen it. Each picture had several smiling firemen sat in the devastated wreckage of a car that had just come of the road. That seemed inappropriate at best. Along side these pictures were the smiling faces of firemen and women going about their daily business, in the office, in the cupboard where they keep the medical supplies, in the fruit and veg shop. Not a single handsome fireman wearing just a helmet with nothing but a fire hose to cover his dignity.

Me and the rep looked at each other with disappointment and then bust into laughter. It really was the most bizarre thing we had ever bought. We had just spent €5 on a load of pictures of road traffic accidents. We then precedes to choose our favourite picture.

The calendar when straight up on our living room wall and we showed it to everyone who came to the house. It made me smile every time I looked at it. It still does. Which is why it is now up in my house in London. And I will continue showing it to everyone who comes round.

Left a bit, right a bit OWW Can we just stop now?

So im taking a break from writing this weekend. It's my birthday weekend and on Sunday I'm turning 25. Coincidentally the childcare manager is also celebrating his birthday on Sunday. He is a bit older than 25 though.

So as a bit of a rest someone else has written the following post. She emailed it to me after a twitter discussion about whether it was possible to have really good, earth shattering sex as a Seasonaire. Or if it is always just a bit awkward and not really worth the grief you get from everyone else the next day. Interesting debate and feel free to have your own input. So in answer to my question I had a rather impassioned reply I just had to share. I have done a slight bit of editing to remove names, places and job titles!!! She's a brave girl!


Sex and the Seasonaire: Is it possible to have good sex on season? Of course it is, but as always there’s going to be some good, some bad & some which can only be described as UGLY!

As my hotel’s ‘Cock Jockey’ of the season I feel I have valid input! Let’s start with the good;
When I set off on season I vowed to remain single, but never did I vow to stay celibate, I know myself too well to make such statements! When I arrived at Geneva airport ready for management training I was nervous, but when I saw the guy holding the clipboard the nerves kind of dissolved I looked at him and simply thought, ‘well, we’re going to have sex!’ its like a sixth sense which pops up every now and then. After a week of gentle flirting and some quantity of rum I found myself in this guy’s room, we were supposed to be topping our drinks up and heading back downstairs to the bar, we both knew it wasn’t really going to happen. We had the most hip shattering session, the kind of thing most people only actually think happen in the movies, we barely slept and hit my record of 6 times a night ;) I set off on the walk of shame the next days with a bruised spine & carpet burns on my feet that scarred! I rarely have one night stands, and this was not that kind of occasion, we continued having fabulous sex until said guy disappeared over the mountain for his season. Leaving me with a smile on my face everytime I look at my feet!
If only it was always so good;
Every now and then we would set off out and I would have one goal; to pull. Girls have needs and occasionally they just have to be met otherwise getting laid turns into a huge distraction/preoccupation. Anyway one night at somepoint over the season we set off out and I knew it was one of those nights, everyone from the hotel was out and I had the following day off. There was a guy in our staff who was slightly different from the others, the difference being he was nice. As assistant hotel manager, not many of the staff were nice, but he was ( I think its also because he's northern) anyway whilst out we were dancing & drinking and ended up kissing, we made our way back to the hotel and went on to have the most awkward drunken sex ever. It was so incredibly teenagerish it was like a sex scene from the inbetweeners, so bad the following day I did ponder the thought that I may have just taken his virginity! As time went on we hung out together a little bit and one night after a few drinks we got chatting, it became obvious that he thought that night had gone well and he’d put in a good performance, this scared me more than spiders!
And on occasions things happen which can only be described as ugly:
He pissed in my bed. A guy who was holidaying in the resort I pulled midweek came for a cheeky stay in my staff accommodation on his last night. We’d chilled out together over the week had some good, good sex and as it was his last night he wanted to see me for one last time. Obviously because this is how life works, I was on a breakfast shift the next morning so couldn’t go and stay at his hotel so risking everything & breaking all the rules I snuck him into the staff accommodation and he stayed the night. I should probably mention at this point we were both quite very drunk, we had some more good sex and fell asleep cramped up in my single bed. At some point in the middle of the night I woke up with a feeling of something warm washing over me… He was pissing in my bed, I kid you not! Naturally, as I was brought up to avoid all awkward situations, I moved on to the floor with a dry blanket. When my alarm went off the next morning I got showered, went to work and unsurprisingly returned to find the holidaymaker had done what I imagine was a very embarrassed runner needless to say we didn’t speak again.

There was also a guy who was in communal staff accommodation who had a deal with his room mates that the shouted Yabadabadooo!!! as they came... im not joking... he was a really good fuck too but that was a bit weird!haha!

The Moment I Knew it was Time to go Home

'When deciding whether a man is stylish enough for us to want to get into his pants, we don't want to be able to actually see them, thanks' - Cosmopolitan magazine August 2012

By the end of the season I was tired. Tired of no sleep, tired of ham baguettes, tired of telling every boy who worked at the hotel to pull their fucking trousers up every moment of every day. I don't want to see your pants, the guests don't want to see your pants (the writers of cosmopolitan magazine don't want to see your pants).

I must confess that on more that one visit to watch the dominos, purely out of habit, I have had to stop myself telling them to pull their trousers up.

In those last few weeks I was tired, exhausted. The rep was exhausted, the fashion designer was too. The childcare manager had left for an amazing job he had been headhunted for, but he had been exhausted at the end too. All the staff were tired and everyone was excited about going home, seeing the people they really missed, having their mum cook then dinner. With still several weeks to go most people had emailed their mums with precise instructions for their first few meals at home (mine was Chinese takeaway on the Saturday night, black pudding Sunday morning, beef roast dinner with Yorkshire pudding on Sunday night).

But the moment I knew I had to go home came at the end of the last week. We had all gone out as a group to watch Bring Your Sisters at the last après of the season. Every one was tired of cleaning. Everyone knew it was the last one. That morning there had been a bit of a 'to-do' about face painting. Some people thought face painting might be a bit of a break of cleaning, others thought that face painting just prolonged the amount of time we had to clean.

However before the argument had commenced I had been told to sit in a chair and have my face painted. I had sat in the chair and as a consequence had some kind of pink glittery bear thing painted on my face. It was about this time when the argument started and suddenly there was huge division in the hotel. It was mainly as a result of people being over tired and taking out their frustrations that some people had been working much harder than others all week.

Anyway I was a bit caught in the middle, totally agreeing with the argument but looking like a bloody care bear. The afternoon dragged on and two thirds of the hotel became tigers, snakes, clowns, skeletons and butterflies.

This image was furthered greatly by the fact several people (including me) decided we should go out to après wearing our onecies. While making the 'what onecie shall I buy' decision I had thought that if I was going to get one, I should go all out and get the worst one going. So mine was (and is, because I do still sometimes wear it) half bright pink and half purple, split straight down the middle.

So just to recap I went out to the last après of the season with a face painted like a pink sparkly bear wearing a half pink, half purple onecie.

We hadn't left the hotel long before I realised my mistake. I did not feel one hundred percent comfortable with my attire.

So we watched Bring Your Sisters, who were amazing, the creme de la creme of après entertainment and during it almost everyone except me got completely off their tits. I'm not sure why I didn't. I wasn't really feeling it and I couldn't be bothered queuing up. And quite quickly everyone started to act like complete dicks. It was the first time in my life I have ever told anyone that 'they disgust me in every way' before. I hope it will be the last. I don't think they will ever remember me saying it to them. Someone vomited into their own hands and then carried on drinking (and they weren't even the person who was so totally repellant that I couldn't contain my disgust). I even caught someone trying to drink toffee vodka though their eyeballs (after which they went 'cat, cat, I can't see' and I could do nothing but call them a fucking retard and walk away)

Soon I had to leave and myself, the fashion designer and the rep want to get food. I was the only one of the three of us dressed so ridiculously and I text Hutch, 'help me hutch, I'm having a burger, and I'm dressed like a fucking care bear in a fucking onecie'. She replied simply 'Catherine, I think is time for you to come home, come back to London, be around normal people again'.

Really? On a Tuesday? I don't believe you. But it's a Tuesday!

Ok I will admit it wasn't the evening I envisaged. I was absolutely convinced I had read that they were starting 'from eight'. It had said that on the font of all knowledge that is Facebook. Facebook is, after all, the most accurate source of information in the western hemisphere. It was only when I was doing my make up on the train on the way into London that I saw 'dominos on tonight at the roadhouse from 11'. Ah I thought. Oops. Tonight was probably not the best night to choose to come. But then I thought,'that can't be true, it's Tuesday. Surely no one goes out that late on a Tuesday. They must have meant 'till 11', that would be respectable, people can go out, have a drink and then be in bed ready for work tomorrow'. That was my plan and I thought it was a good one.

Anyone who follows me on twitter will know I have been talking about this gig for several days. I was looking forward to it. I had invited friends. They had actually agreed to come.

I met Hutch at the tube in Covent Garden. The tube had been a nightmare. Full of snogging teenagers from Europe. You all know I'm not a prude, far from it, but I do not want to be on public transport, stood next to some spotty French 18 year old with an erection while he exchanges saliva with his girlfriend and then looks longingly into her eyes. Either go somewhere private and have sweaty, awkward teenage sex or bloody behave yourselves!

So as I said, I got off the tube, met up with Hutch and we went to Marks and Spencers. There wasn't a single teenager in there, snogging or not.

I had been given a voucher from work and we had decided to put it towards a nice picnic. We bought bread, a range of salami, camembert cheese and those little cake things you get in tubs. We were slightly put out to find that they had run out of plastic knifes and just had several thousand spoons. It was very similar to one of the last times we took Camembert on a picnic and all we had to cut it with was my British Library card. Some people cut cocaine with credit cards. I cut Camembert with library cards.

We found a nice place in Covent Garden and sat and had a delightful picnic. We managed to cut the Camembert with the plastic spoon.

At about 8 we meandered our way to the Road House. I realised pretty much straight away that they wouldn't be on till 11. But it was nice having a catch up and a friend I hadn't seen in absolutely years came and so we spend some time having the 'so what have you been up to in the past 2 years' conversation. Hutch and her housemate had to make a move but Harri and I stayed discussing life when we were masters students together and spent our Saturday's working 16 hour shifts in a hotel's wedding department. It mainly involved us running about, polishing cutlery, eating, folding napkins, and then getting really drunk afterwards and walking home (via a 24 hour marks and spencers) it was one of the best jobs either of us has ever had.

Anyway both Harri and myself consider ourselves quite cool people. We go out, we drink, we dance, we have stayed up till 6 am HOWEVER it is a Tuesday and we both have to be at work at 9am. Towards half ten the conversation was being replaced by quite a lot of yawning. We had said hello to the Dominos, who had told up they wouldn't be on till half past 11. They didn't really understand why we couldn't stay out till three in the morning. Not a chance I thought, I could see that Harri was thinking the same. The bar was filling up and neither of us could work out what kind of people it was filling up with. They couldn't possibly be people who had to go to work in the morning but they didn't look like students. The dominos said they were filming a video, I was very pleased for them but it was not enough to keep us from our beds, that and I am the least photogenic person in the world, so I had no desire to accidentally be in a dominos video, no matter how briefly.

So we left. As i was gathering up my my things I was struck by an absolutely horrible smell, it was the Camembert in my bag and it had got quite strong.

It was only when I came back up to ground level that I realised that the first night bus back to where I live, which is so far on the outskirts of London that it isn't actually really London anymore, didn't depart for 45 minutes.

I was too early for the night bus.

Anyway I waited and it came. No one came to sit next to me because the smell of camembert had become rather overwhelming.

It was only when a man got on the bus whose smell was more overwhelming than my cheese that someone sat next to me. Unfortunately it was the man who smelt worst that the aforementioned dairy product.

And the award goes to...........

The nomination forms went out in beginning of shut down week. Nominations for the end of season awards. End of season awards are, as far as I can tell, are standard in most hotels. But our categories included;

1. Best looking girl
2. Best looking boy
3. Most appropriate nick name
4. Best boobs
5. Biggest piss head
6. Best male skier/ boarder
7. Best female skier/ boarder
8. Best front of house staff
9. Best back of house staff
10. Best kept secret

So the three of us, the rep, the fashion designer and I, were sat in our room staring at the identical pieces of paper we all held in our hands,
'But I don't know any secrets' Said the rep.
'Neither do I' I replied, 'we will have a think and fill in the rest'.

Ten minutes later,
'No one other than you two know about my nipple piercing' I said, 'you can put that of you want'.
'Perfect, that is actually a really good idea' said the rep and wrote it down immediately.
'Does no one else know about it?' the fashion designer asked
'Err no' I replied 'it's not a subject that comes up very often, I don't really tell anyone'.
'You told us' she threw back
'Haha I showed you two'
'Well there is someone else in the hotel who knows' the Rep reminded me, which set both her and the fashion designer into fits of giggles. I did my best to ignore them.

I got the nipple piercing few years back. I don't really look like a girl who would have body piercings, and to be honest I quite like that. There have been cases of absolute, complete surprise amongst some people. I have always wanted a tattoo but my mum would go mad. That and I could never decide what I would want inked onto my body for the rest of my life.

Anyway, did the three of us know that when the best kept secrets were read out everyone would think that LiF had written it?

Of course we did.

Did we discus it?

Yes.

Did we think it was quite funny?

Yep.

So, we handed in our nominations and forgot about it in the crazy, continuous cleaning that made up shut down week. And I think we genuinely forgot all about it.

Until we were all sat around waiting for the awards to begin;

1. Best looking girl: the rep, she is gorgeous after all, the fashion designer came a close second.

2. Best looking boy: Beany, who does have stunning blue eyes.

3. Most appropriate nick name: Timone and Pumba, which was a rather cruel nick name for chef and his girlfriend H1.

4. Best boobs: the Rep again. Anyone who has ever met her will know why. It's obvious.

5. Biggest piss head: Miss P- who else? There really was no contest.

6. Best male skier/ boarder: chef

7. Best female skier/ boarder: the rep (it's getting a bit repetitive now)

8. Best front of house staff: the fashion designer. She's a swot like that.

9. Best back of house staff: Stefan the KP, who did the job of three people.

Then it was the best kept secret. Nothing hugely new came out. Miss M and DC getting it on in the hot tub with pizza, I hadn't known about I will admit. And I did not want to know about it.

I must admit when mine was read out last I timed my reaction beautifully.

The look of shock on my face was worthy of an Oscar, as I turned to LiF, who was sat right in front of me, and looked at him accusingly. Everyone else looked at him too as they exclaimed in surprise. It really did seem like a revelation to them all.
'It wasn't me!' he turned to me 'itwasntmecatithoneslywasntme' followed by 'I didn't tell anyone!'
I felt a little bit sorry for him. Everyone was had been convinced it was him. Bless him!

And I really should have been given an award for managing to keep a straight face. The rep and the fashion designer did bloody well too.

It didn't take long before people started questioning if it was true and he admit it was. Several people said I if they had known that I would have won the best boob competition (I was one of the nominees).

They never did announce which one won the award. But I think it was me.

I don't know if anyone knows it was us who set it up. We never admitted it till now. But I dont know who else they thought it might be.

There was a best kept secret that wasn't read out. Some of us knows what it said. It was probably for the bet that it wasn't read out.

At least there is sun with the rain in Meribel.

The Ideals of Beauty?

Im going to make a confession. The very day after I came back from the mountains I went and got my eyebrows done. It's not as simple as just a bit of plucking. When at sea level I get them waxed, trimmed, plucked and then dyed. Women with actual qualifications in eyebrow maintenance take wax and then little eyebrow scissors to them and with the help of a handy eyebrow brush they trim them into a nice eyebrow shape. And when the lovely woman had finished I felt human again. In the mountains with no access to trained eyebrow specialists I had got desperate; but not desperate enough to try and trim them myself. I'm not that stupid.

Don't get me wrong. I am not the owner of crazy eyebrows that enter the room before I do but hair control is a very important issue to me, as I expect it is to most women.

This could possibly be because the image I have of myself should I let things go all natural is of a yeti with a Yorkshire accent. Now the sane part of me knows this isn't entirely true however I have been known to refer to myself as the hairiest woman in the world.

One would think that when I was packing for a six month trip I would have thought hard about my hair removal regime.

I did not.

I packed a razor, two spare razor heads and a pair of tweezers. This was all ok for a while. I happily shaved the places that needed shaving every other day, as is my usual regime and plucked everything else. I tried not to look at my eyebrows and I locked myself in the bathroom while I took the tweezers to my top lip. Now tweezing my top lip is potentially the worst pain I have ever gone through. In England I get it waxed. It takes seconds and then it's gone. Tweezing takes bloody ages!

Now come the middle of January I had a horrible thought. I was on my last razor head and it was almost time for another. What would I do? The chemist in town sold disposables but they looked like they would slice more leg than leg hair. The horrific Yorkshire yeti was dancing in the back of my mind and I wondered whether hair free but cut to bits legs were more appealing than hairy ones. Even though that thought entered my mind, I am slightly more reasonable than that and decided it email my mum instead. The email read 'dear mum, need to remove body hair, please send razor blades asap...and a copy of BBC history magazine. Thanks. Love you'. And while waiting the two weeks it took for parcels to arrive I carried on using the bluntest razor known to man.

One day the fashion designer said she just couldn't take it anymore, her moustache had got too bad, she needed cream to get rid of it. So we went to Sherpa and bought some own brand French hair removal cream. Leg hair removal cream, because that's a there was.

On arriving home she immediately applied it to her face.
'this isn't really meant for faces' I said
'I don't care' she replied.

I can't read much French but I could read enough to see that it was supposed to be applied for 6 minutes.
'I think it's time to take it off now' I said.
'I will just leave it a few minutes longer' she replied, quickly followed by 'err it's beginning to burn now, I think I will wash it off'.

She returned a few minutes later with a rather red top lip. 'At least the hair is gone' she said and then went to work.

Almost as soon as she had gone I used it myself. Though I took it off after exactly 6 minutes and they were a very tense 6 minutes.

And what was it all for really? We were in a ski resort. We never had our legs or arm pits on display. I was always wearing multiple layers that almost always included 120 denier tights. I could have provided a natural extra layer of warmth for myself to help me battle temperatures which reached minus 27 degrees.

And will I do that next season?

NO! I will just pack a huge amount of razor blades and hair removal cream.

Happy Birthday

Everyone should wish Miss F, one of the best duty supervisors/ assistant managers I have ever worked with, a happy birthday! She has a great Burnley accent and a weakness for handsome and not so handsome young men. She is also one of my greatest fans, so she has great taste.

It is also my birthday a month today. Just to let you all know!

The dishwasher, the Nanny and the sheet of gelatine

It wasn't really a hotel where people played practical jokes on others. For this I am glad. There was, I think, only one practical joke played all season. And that was between Chef and a nanny.

While the nanny, Miss M, was helping in the kitchen she was passed a sheet of gelatine, 'this is very expensive', Chef said 'be very careful with it when it goes through the dishwasher'.
Miss M had no idea what gelatine was and so, with a look of concentration on her face, she carefully placed it in the dishwasher.

And when the dishwasher was finished...the gelatine sheet was gone (obvious to everyone who knows that gelatine melts in hot water). But Miss M did not know this and was panicking, believing she had lost a very expensive piece of kitchen equipment. She looked everywhere in the dishwasher, almost climbing inside to look right at the top.

Still nothing.

She summoned all her courage and went to confess.

Chef managed to keep a straight face for several minutes before collapsing in laughter. I think Miss M actually hit him. He deserved a smack.

Time went on with Miss M and she threw herself into life in the mountains. She smoked, drank, went out, but not as hard as the hardest partiers. She became bestest friends with H1 the HA

She always made the most of Wednesday après and enjoyed coming in for a chat with me while I was working and she was wasted. My favourite was towards the end of season where she came in to cook pizza. As she was eating and I was watching, the cheese slid all the way of the pizza, down her face and down her shirt. It is probably her finest moment. On that same evening she had to spend a good half hour flat on her back on the floor because it was much easier than sitting up. She had several flings with the same man, repeatedly declaring that she would never go near him again and then going back. No one was ever surprised. And she always seemed passionately dedicated to her friends, despite frequent bitchy rows. Several times confining in me her worry about one person or another.

My favourite ever encounter with Miss M came on the very last après, where everyone other than me was absolutely incredibly drunk. She came up to me and gave me a massive hug (the first and last hug we ever shared) 'Cat, when the season started I preferred the other assistant manager to you because I thought she was my friend. And it was obvious you didn't know what you were doing. Then the other manager was a bitch and I started getting to know you and I realised you were the best manager in the world ever.
'err thanks miss m' I began
'No no no, you really are, I think your great (speech was rather blurred here) you are great, fantastic, and I would work for you any time'

And that, drunken soliloquy was perhaps, the biggest, most genuine compliment I have ever had.

The Power of Words

What's the one word that strikes fear into your heart? One word that makes you shudder just hearing it? A word you do your best to avoid saying out loud?

For me it's 'goulash'.

That one word brings back such a range of horrible memories. Goulash was on the menu on a Monday. So on a Tuesday the staff got goulash for their dinner. Now I don't know what happened to that particular goulash in the 24 hours it was in the fridge. But something must have done. If we had serve something that horrific to the guests we would have had serious complaints. It must have fermented in the time it was sitting in the fridge It had a kind of sickly sour taste and there was something in there you just couldn't identify. And there was always little bits of a hard, wood like substance that you had to pick out your mouth. You always felt a bit ill for hours after eating it.

And it wasn't just me that hated the goulash. Everyone hated the goulash. I doubt if anyone who worked in that hotel will ever have goulash again. I expect everyone will avoid it like the plague for the rest of their lives. I was talking to Miss P the other day and even the word Goulash had her feeling a bit dodgy.

That it all I have to say on that subject. I will have to avoid talking about goulash again

The Best Sweets in the Worls.

They even taste bad for you. And they are the cheapest thing in Meribel.

The Tax Office

I phoned the tax office the other day,
'Oh' said the woman at the other end of the phone, 'I think we are missing some data, I will just have to look into it for you'
'What data are you missing' I said helpfully (not wanting there to be any delay on my tax refund'
'Well its just that the wage you got from the job you had November to April seems really low'

I actually laughed down the phone at the woman

'I can assure you its right, you don't get paid very much to be a seasonaire'

'It's just it is a really really small amount'

'Yes I know, I know it looks wrong, but I can assure you that is what I got paid. It will be right. I actually was paid what it says on your screen'

'Oh... OK then...well you definitely didn't earn enough money last financial year to pay tax'

No I did not!

Don't blog that

So yesterday I wrote a short post about going with Miss P to the Doninos at Agenda in London (great venue actually, the best I have seen the band play in in the UK) It was only short because I was fighting a loosing battle with the battery on my phone.I think I might have unintentionally given you the wrong impression in my post last night. Miss P and myself are not violent people. Miss P might have threatened to glass people many many times but never to their faces and she wouldn't actually do it I'm sure.


And iv never hit anyone either. And I wouldn't. The manager of the hotel once described me as the most violent women he had ever met, but this was because he once jumped out on me when I was coming out of a lift and I kicked him hard in the shins. This was a totally reflex reaction and not my fault. I did not expect to be jumped out on. In that split second when my subconscious thought I was being attacked I revered back 100 000 years to basic 'fight or flight' reactions, and I fight. But I have never started a bar fight. Or a fight that wasn't in a bar for that matter.


So let's start from the beginning. Miss P and I had this evening planned since before we left Meribel but for one reason or another it has taken us two months to get sorted.


Yesterday however we were able to be in the same bar, at the same time as the Dominos.


When I met Miss P at Tottenham Court Road she was openly nervous and terrifically excited. We caught up on gossip on the hottest, sweatiest tube train in London and then walked in the wrong direction three times. Miss P was openly worried that as she had never seen them sober, it just wouldn't be the same and she wouldn't like them that much. I assured her that she would.


We walked into Agenda and got ID'd. This was great. I love being ID's. I'm turning 25 in five weeks and the thought that some thinks there is a possibility I might be 17 is absolutely hilarious.  The Domino's were just  setting  up. I turned to Miss P and suggested going over and saying hello. She flew past me in a panic and I just caught the words 'need make up' as she ran into the ladies toilets. Being a very pretty eighteen year old she did not need any make up and I told her so as I dragged her out of the bathroom and pushed her forward to finally say hello. 


We soon left them to plug wires into speakers and such forth and retreated to find somewhere to sit. The football was on everywhere we looked. We expected the band to start playing at 9 and then realised that they wouldn't start playing till the football finished at half past.


Miss P looked at me in horror, 'but what is they draw and then there is extra time and penalties, then the Domino's will never get on'.
'It will be fine' I reassured her, 'That only happens when England play'. And sure enough we saw Italy score two in quick succession. And we waited ages for the match to finish. It seemed like the longest game of football in history.
'Thank God there is only four minutes extra time' Miss P said, 'Just as long as Germany don't score two goals in the next four minuets we will be fine'. Just as she said this Germany scored. She looked distraught. 'What! NO!' She shouted so loudly that several people around us were convinced she was a very passionate Italy supporter.
'Calm down P it won't happen again, not in 2 minutes' I said as I hugged her to try and get her to calm down. 'Just breath P, just breath'.


Those two minutes were the longest of Miss P's life. But the game finished, Italy won, the TVs were turned off and the Dominos started. We went to dance. It was the biggest crowd that I had seen at one of their gigs since Meribel and it made me happy. They were getting a little bit of the recognition they deserved and everyone was loving it. And they played the Billionaire/Seasonaire song and dedicated it to us (well to the Seasonaires in the House but Miss P and myself having this to ourselves)


Several songs in Peter, the lead singer announced he was was going to play some real cheese. Then the instantly recognisable notes of Peter Andres 'Mysterious Girl' came out of nowhere. My eyes lit up, I smiled more than I have smiled in a long time and my head turned in slow motion to the boys who were looking at me and smiling back, knowing that it was my favourite and I have blogged about it so many times. By the end of it my voice was shot from singing so loudly.


Miss P had to shoot off to catch a train back home and I stayed for the last few songs with a friend who had come from Norway. Miss P didn't want to go and stayed much longer than she should have, 'But please can I just stay for one more song? Just one more???' Until I actually had to force her to leave, not wanting her to get stuck in Kings Cross station over night. As soon as I had seen her earlier on in the night, all the over protective feelings I had for her in the Alps came flooding back and I returned to my mother hen role.


When the set was finally over I managed to chat with Peter and Alex, the drummer. The resounding message that came out of that conversation was 'Yeah we really like your blog, but we do get worried about what you might write'. I laughed and reassured them that I would only ever write good things (not that there are any bad things to write of course!). Peter even gave me half of his Jagerbomb. I don't think he meant me to actually finish it off but out of habit I accidentally knocked it back in one (for this Peter I am very sorry and the next one is on me). It was the first one I have had since leaving Meribel and really is the taste of the Alps (I also think its the taste of medicine). They are very nice boys, everyone should hire them for parties and buy their new album when it comes out. Though throughout the evening they kept doing and saying things and then looking at me in horror and saying 'Don't blog that'. And I haven't, just as I promised.


And I didn't become their roadie, didn't offer my services in that department, didn't freak anyone out with very un-ladylike feats of strength in carrying equipment. I have to explain that the Ram Raid let me carry their stuff because they are so chilled out they are almost horizontal and just let me get on with things as long as I don't break anything. Letting me carry things is much less effort that telling me not to (they also don't read this blog!).


So that was it for another week. I have now seen the Domino's three out of the past four Thursdays. I might have to give it a rest for a couple of weeks so they don't start dreading seeing my face in the crowd.

MUST REMEMBER WHEN I GO BACK

I do not like cheese fondue. I do like raclette. However raclette cheese eating competitions lead to not feeling well for some time and inability to sleep

Being very restrained

Miss P was very restrained. Very very restrained. I was proud. In Meribel she would have punched someone. Or glassed them. It would have been a disaster. There would have been blood. And tears. I would have had to come and sorted it all out. It would have led to a lot of extra work for me.

Noone

Not anyone

Pushes in front of Miss P at a Dominos gig. It just doesn't happen. Everyone in Meribel knows it. It's not safe. And yet here, in London she managed to control herself. She laughed it off when the girls in the heels and the body con dresses pushed past her. Don't get me wrong the anger flashed in her eyes. But she controlled it. Even when the girls started grinding around her and elbowed her away she controlled it. She didn't remove any clothes. Didn't throw her bra on stage.

It was the first time she has ever seen the Dominos sober. And she spent several times seeing them four times a week (she claims it was only twice but I'm sure it's four). And this was the first sober one. Quite an achievement I feel. And she was only sober because she didn't want to get the late night train home pissed. Who know what could have happened!

I was very restrained too. I didn't try to pack up the bands van. I didn't offer my services as a roadie. I was itching to while watching them pack up. But I didn't. In fact I'm still being restrained as I'm staring at their stuff, which is still in the bar. I have had to turn my back. I can't look at it!

I would make an excellent roadie!

Four separate drunk men have also tried to make me dance with them. I was restrained not to punch them in te face when they wouldn't go away!

Deja vu or just plain stupidity?

I honestly had no intention of going back. I really wasn't going to go. And then they offered me a promotion, the one job I could not turn down. So today I accepted and Seasonaire in the City is going back to Meribel for the winter 12/13 season.

Bloody Hell what have I done??? I woke up in a cold sweat thinking about it all last night.

Waking up at 6am for work, being tired all the time, dealing with shouting, unpleasant customers and being nice to them, working from 6 am till 11 at night, horrific transfer days that last forever, bloody ham baguettes for lunch every single bloody day, staff who will do anything to get out of working, bouts of gastro where both guests and staff are being violently sick everywhere and have serious diarrhoea and then having to clean it up, getting pissed up staff out of bed, everyone knowing all my business about everything, nothing being private for a whole six months. Using that hotel washing powder that makes all your clothes stand up on their own. Bloody freezing cold weather all the time.

Six months.

I must be mad. Crazy. Insane to do it all again.  

And yet I am really bloody excited. The snow, the people, the music, the night life, the camaraderie. A range of questions are running through my head right now. Who am I going to meet? What exciting, unbelievable things are going to happen?  Am I going to do slightly more skiing this year? (yes mum I am, I promise).

So I am going to start making some lists. I like lists.

Things I Took with me last Season that I did not need and will not pack this time round
15 different shades of nail varnish
A bikini (I lived in hope there would be an outdoor swimming pool, there isn't)
Fish net tights (I can't remember why I thought I might need these)
A packet of 12 condoms (I just wasn't that popular)
Flip flops (again a big ??? over why I packed them the first time round)
Beige salopettes (they are just not cool)

Things I am packing this time that I didn't pack last time (* next to the things I got sent out because I was desperate) 
A duvet* (Got sent out a luxury Hungarian goose down one)
Earl Grey Tea* (French stuff just isn't the same and I do get a bit shaky without it)
A better collection of jumpers
Speakers* (putting my iphone into a glass just doesn't have the same effect)
A kindle (getting the collection of books I had bought, back home was a massive effort, and I can have all 3 50 Shades of Grey books on there without anyone knowing I'm reading them, even though I have read them all already)
Enough make up to get me right the way through the season *(and even then it wasn't quite enough)
500 000000 ball point pens (because they just disappear)
Neon Yellow salopettes.


That is my list for now. It is going to extend infinitely over the next few months.

A Taxi Ride to Remember

The day of my flight back to England for my job interview I had an early start. I had to get all the way into town with my suitcase. It was before the buses were running so I would have to drag my suitcase through the snow. I had pre-booked an airport transfer from Meribel to Geneva airport and as I was the only person going from Meribel to Geneva that day they had put on a taxi to take me down the mountain to the coach station.

I was just brushing my teeth and starting to think about the walk when my phone started to ring and there was a very shouty French taxi driver on the line. After a few seconds he realised that my French wasn't up to much and in stunted English told me he didn't want to pick me in Meribel centre, as it was a bit far for him to go and asked me where I lived so he could pick me up there. I liked this idea as it meant much less suitcase dragging for me and I told him where I lived. However it did strike me as odd that a taxi driver had called me up because he didn't want to meet where we had arranged.

The only problem was he was actually a taxi driver in Courcheval and had no idea where I lived and it took us some time to agree a meeting point that we both knew (Morel ski lift if anyone is interested).

When he picked me up he seemed friendly enough, he took my ticket and lifted by suitcase into the back of his car for me. After a few minutes he struck up a conversation and asked my name, 'Catherine' I said,
'Ah, that's my wife's name', he replied, 'we have been married 26 years'
'Wow that's a long time' I said, not quite sure what else to say,
'Yes very long, too long' he grumbled and seemed quite upset at the length of time he had been with this woman with whom I share a name.
I laughed and said 'time to find someone new?'
He looked at me horrified! 'No No No! Sex is important in but it is not the only thing in life'.
I looked at the back of his head as he was driving mortified, but he continued.
'Yes sex is important, very important and I could go out and have sex with beautiful young women but that would impact on my family'. What is happening, I thought, how did we get onto extra marital affairs at this time in the morning? But unfortunately he continued 'There are many things important in life, money, skiing, work, family, sex, but they all have to balance'. I was momentarily distracted from his rant by the fact that he had put skiing as more important that family. But I put it down to the fact he lived in the mountains and the continuous cold over the years had got to him. 

The taxi suddenly felt like a very uncomfortable place to be. Being ranted at about sex at 7.30 in the morning by a French taxi driver was not what I envisaged the day before my job interview and I sat in the back of the taxi as silent as possible. After his rant had finished he paused for a few minutes and then said 'do you speak French' (he said this is French), 'Only a little'  (I replied also in French)
'You should learn' he said in English, 'It is important'.

And this was the last thing he said to me for some while and all that was left for me to do was cling on to the seat as he hurtled down the mountain at ridiculous speeds, driving in the middle of the road all the way unless he met traffic coming the other way when he would quickly swing to one side, before moving back into the middle of the road.

When we got the bottom of the mountain and I was openly relieved that I was still alive, he stopped the taxi to have a little chat with a friend of his he had seen walking home from the bakery. He even introduced me to his friend. I was glad his mood had improved somewhat.

When we got to the coach station he told me the best place to get a coffee while waiting for the coach. I thanked him and walked away fast.

I am never getting into conversations about taxi driver's families ever again.

Soaking wet for the Dominos

I should probably stop turning up at the dominos gigs on my own. Tonight I went to Tiger Tiger after a late London meeting. I was absolutely soaking wet after walking all the way from bloody Waterloo in the rain! There were loads of beautiful girls in high heels and tight dresses and I looked like a drowned rat in a suit, with flat black boots on and make up, which had been hastily applied this morning, dripping down my face. I managed to catch the last few songs and once again they lit up the crowd. As the meeting I was at had provided champagne but no food I was dying for dinner and a cigarette, so I stayed long enough to say hello to the boys and an 'I miss Meribel conversation'. I was fully aware that hanging about Tiger Tiger on a thursday night on my own was not exactly the coolest thing to do so it wasn't long before I headed off. But it was my little bit of my season in London. A high five from the singer and a mouthed 'I know you' from the drummer (the reps favourite person in the world) during the start of Don't Stop Believing and I'm a very happy, if still damp, Seasonaire in the City.

Do I care that I went to a London city bar, soaking wet, on a Thursday night, to catch the last 15 minutes of a band I don't really know?

No, I don't give a flying fuck. I need that memory of my season like a drug. That music keeps me going. That memory keeps me going. There isn't much more to it that that.

Other than that, right now I'm huddled round the radiator on the bus trying to fend off hypothermia. But I'm happy, for another week.