'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'.
Wednesday 25 July 2012
Tuesday 17 July 2012
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.
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.
Sunday 15 July 2012
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.
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.
Sunday 8 July 2012
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.
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.
Thursday 5 July 2012
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!
It is also my birthday a month today. Just to let you all know!
Tuesday 3 July 2012
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.
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.
Sunday 1 July 2012
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
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
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