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.

The Domino's Gig dates for the next few weeks!

Want to see the Domino's live after reading all about them??? Here are their gig dates for the next few weeks. See if you can spot me there, if you can I drink dry white wine (don't look for me in Cardiff though, I won't be there)

Thu 21st June - Tiger Tiger // London Piccadilly
Mon 25th June - Live Lounge // Cardiff
Thu 28th June - Agenda // London EC3R 7AA
Thu 05th July - Opel // London Embankment
Thu 12th July - Live Lounge // Cardiff




Enjoy!

The Day I Happily Handed Over the Title of 'The Ram Raid's Biggest Fanin Meribel'

Childcare staff can be a very strange set of people. Some are naturally strange and others become strange after spending so much time around children. Being so good with children meant they they were strange with adults. They were all strange in their own special ways.

For rather too long, several very crude jokes were banded about the hotel (mainly the kitchen) and the phrased 'ram raided' was coined.  I wasn't the biggest fan of this particular phrase, especially as it was almost always directed towards me. This came around after the ONE TIME I went out with the band and the chefs saw me in Dicks.  It was the general running joke that I spend all of my free time engaging in various naked acts with the three men at the same time. This was so unbelievably far from the truth but it became habit that I was asked about it every single morning. For a few weeks I just told them to Fuck Off and then I began responding with 'I didn't go last night, its got a bit boring now, a bit repetitive'. However there were several people who actually believed it was true and I had to spend rather a lot of time correcting them in an increasingly exasperated way. Rather too much time actually. My nickname on the back of my seasonaire onesie (most seasonaires get hoodies, we got onesies) was 'Ram Raided', luckily in very small writing.

Anyway, I got into work one day, to have several people practically run up to me to tell me that 'Rox got Ram Raided last night'. The glee and delight that lit up the hotel when there was some interesting gossip going round was instantly recognisable. Over the next 30 seconds I got the garbled story that Rox had taken the bassist from the Ram Raid home the night before.

Rox was childcare and had, up until that point, been rather gossip free. Still strange in a childcare kind of a way. On the first day she had downright refused to live in the general staff accommodation (you can't blame her) and she moved into one of the apartments further down the mountain. And I got to know her in my role as 'protector of all crying girls' in one of her few moments of weakness and I resolved to take her out.

And I did. I literally dragged her down the street. I did actually drag her by her arm down the street all the way to a bar called the den which was right in above Dicks Tea Bar. I knew that the Ran Raid was playing and I knew she would enjoy them. Haha how right I was (I am right about most things as anyone who knows me will tell you). They were good as always. Rox was very taken with the double bass. I briefly introduced them and I got to sit in the VIP area. I enjoyed that.

As we were leaving a very drunk man started talking to us. He told me about how Sean Bean in Sharpe is his hero and he is almost as good in Game of Thrones. I was the only one in the group who had watched Sharpe, so we had a great conversation.

So fast forward several months and Rox had, it seemed, indulged in a fantasy she had been thinking about for some time. Good on her. She had always liked his hair she said, she thought his long curly red hair was beautiful.

There was one question everyone asked her, 'didn't the long, curly, red hair get in the way?' It turned out she made him tie it up. Very sensible.

Cleaning the bathroom.

Today I spent rather a long time in the bathroom of my mums house. My mum was bleaching my hair for the first time in ten years. Ten years ago I had purple hair which my mum turned orange. Ronald McDonald orange. You could see me for miles orange. Anyway it has taken ten years but today I handed over a bottle of blonde hair die and hoped for the best.

My mum agreed to do this on the condition I cleaned the bathroom. 'Ooh' I thought, 'I'm good at cleaning bathrooms'. I'v cleaned loads of bathrooms and I started with the bathroom mirror. This got me thinking about the number of bathrooms I have cleaned and the even larger number of bathrooms my HAs cleaned and I checked. A huge portion of my hobby was taken up with checking the cleanliness of bathrooms. This mainly involved me stroking all the surfaces, sink, floor, toilet to see if I could feel dirt, body fat, wee. It was a pretty grim job and I washed my hands a lot!

While checking the cleanliness of the bathrooms I always enjoyed looking at what expensive make up the guests had and what medication they were on. It was always much easier to handle guest complaints when you knew they had pile cream or diarrhoea tablets in their bathrooms. I would never ever rummage through their stuff and was always amazed at what they left out on display.

One day I was cleaning rooms with the fashion designer. I was cleaning the toilet. She was cleaning the bathroom. When she opened the bathroom door she commented aloud about the slightly funny smell, there was nothing unusual about this. When she when to change the bin she cried out in horrified alarm 'there's a huge poo in the bin'.

Of course there is only one reaction to hearing that phrase and that is to go and have a look at the huge poo in the bin.

And there was a huge poo in the bin. And someone had wrapped it up in toilet paper.
'Who on earth wraps their poo in toiled paper and then puts it in the bin?' the fashion designer quite rightly commented
'I think thats the worst smell I have ever smelt' I said.
At this point the fashion designer showed her stout heart and quickly emptied the bin and whipped away the poo.

I don't know what the owner of that poo had eaten but the smell hung around for a really long time and there was a lot of industrial strength air freshener used.

So when my mum returned to the bathroom ten minutes later she was a bit shocked that she didn't have a spotless bathroom. She just had a really really shiny, smear free mirror and a daughter who looked bizarrely pleased with herself!

Potentially the best way anyone has ever been sacked from a job.

During the season I saw several people leave. Many of them left of their own accord and a few were sacked. The stoner KP did both. He had had enough of being a KP and washing dishes all the time so got a job with another company and handed his notice in. But then he got fired.

That week we had a very odd man in the hotel. It quickly went round the hotel staff that he was a gangster. I did not believe this for one second, but several people were convinced. I had spent some time listening to him while he was at the bar and he was a stock broker and not a gangster. But he had a lot of money and wanted everyone to know about it. He had handed 50 euro notes out to several members of staff (not to me unfortunately) and he was from London therefore he MUST be a gangster.

I was just on the train coming home from seeing my lovely baby brother in Val D'Isere when I got a phone call. It was slightly garbled and did not make very much sense, all I knew was that the stoner KP had been suspended for leaving work when he was on his night shift and I had to bring my pyjamas to work as I had to sleep over. Too tired to even process this information I closed my eyes and returned to my lovely sleep on the train.

When I got home I was still slightly confused and I packed my overnight bag and went to work to find out what the hell was going on.

It turned out that the night before, the gangster who wasn't really a gangster had got up in the middle of the night and then wandered round the hotel to see if he could find any staff. He found the stoner KP and offered him 500 euros to take him to Dicks. The Kp agreed and called a taxi for the two of them. The whole night went down like some horrific comedy film. When they got to Dicks the gangster ordered several bottles of champagne, rounds of Jagerbombs and cocaine (he didn't order the cocaine from the bar but from some people who happened to be in there).

The gangster had a great night. His favourite thing to do it seemed was hand 50 euro notes out to girls and tell them to 'buy themselves something nice'. Dicks was always 70% men fighting it out for the attentions of the 30% women. 80% of the women in there just wanted to be left alone. It was a great place to people watch. So the gangster was not out of place there, though  very few men handed out cash. He wasn't very lucky with any of the girls, who took the money and then pissed off.

Several people who worked with the stoner KP were rather surprised to see him turn up in the nightclub with a guest, especially as he was supposed to be working.

Everyone was having a great night, until the gangster was asked to pay his bill. This bill was astronomical, especially on top of all the money he had handed out to girls, to the KP and to the drug dealers and he only hand enough cash to pay about half of his bill. I have no idea how someone can run up such a astronomical bill, but I guess that's what happens when someone spends the night handing out champagne to everyone he sees. The owner of the club was very pissed off and it was only the head chef of the hotel stepping in that stopped something very bad happening. The gangster was thrown out and the KP took him back to the hotel. The gangster when to bed and a very drunk stoner KP went back to work.

This might have all been hushed up by the staff, if the KP himself hadn't drunkenly bragged about it to the other assistant hotel manager when she turned up to work about an hour after he got in.

She did not find this funny.

She began the disciplinary procedures that led to him being fired.

No one could blame him for going, he was leaving the job anyway and got 500 euros and all his drinks paid for an evening.

The gangster was not at breakfast the next morning, he did not make his skiing lesson. He looked rather ill at lunch time and still looked ill that evening.

And his wife was mad. She turned to him and asked just how much money he had spend the night before. It was about 3000 euros. She demanded that he gave her the same amount to go shopping with. He handed over the cash then and there. Later than night he came down asking for a dustpan and brush because they had smashed a glass. I am convinced it was because his wife had thrown it at his head.

I had to spend the night sleeping on a camp bed in the nursery. The nursery was rather cold and if you moved when you were sleeping the camp bed would collapse.

When Opposites Attract

The Rep and the Childcare Manager. The Childcare Manager and the Rep.

Two people very alike in many ways, both management (ish) on their second ski season, both had childcare backgrounds, both brilliant skiers. Both loved a really good argument.

Neither liked backing down.

Neither had any problems with me hearing their arguments.

Both liked to ask my opinion whilst having these arguments or to 'take sides', if you will.



But there is no doubt about it, the were both very different in many ways.

The rep was from the North of England, the CCM from the South. The Rep had a degree from Oxford and lots of friends who went to Oxford. The CCM had a degree from Exeter and had a friend who was a geography teacher (As a historian, Geographers are my natural enemies, but this one was very nice, rather polite as it happens)

The biggest difference was evident at all meal times. The rep believed that everything you ate that wasn't a vegetable or a fruit was bad for you. The CCM hasn't eaten a vegetable since 1993, when his mother got so fed up of the fuss he made every dinner time that she stopped making him eat them. They both spent most meal times being totally stunned at what the other was eating.

The Rep was fearless at celeb spotting and has chased countless C list celebrities down city streets.  The CCM didn't see why anyone would chase Lee from Blue down the street.

And yet they were rather good together, they still are

Music sounds better in the Mountains

Little taste of the Meribel bands for you!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a6lfPeKDqdU

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PGBXUBGSHUk&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X0dEQ3XIRGE&feature=results_main&playnext=1&list=PL7ABCE1085284BF52


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ziQUsP4rR4&feature=BFa&list=PL7ABCE1085284BF52

Several marriage proposals in the Alps

The rep's brother proposed to his girlfriend on a romantic holiday to Meribel. She said yes and they are now planning a beautiful Moroccan wedding. The Fashion designer proposed to Beany about fifty times. He said no. He has now moved to Portugal which is 2652km away from her.

It was his dancing that made her fall for him, 'He dances like a God' was her frequent comment as she was gazing at him in complete wonder 'He is a God!'.

Words cannot describe how he danced. It wasn't exactly Strictly Come Dancing and he most certainly has not had any dance training. but it was the most exuberant, energetic movements ever made. There was no fear and he was totally comfortable standing in the middle of a crowd and going mad. It was truly great to watch.

It was obvious that Beany found her attentions rather overwhelming. He could never be sure if she was being serious or not. After a couple of weeks her proposals had become almost hourly and she had planned out their life together, 'we wouldn't have to have sex, we could just live together and you can dance for me every day. That is all I need in life. You can see other people, I wouldn't mind, just dance for me everyday and I would cook and clean for you and do your washing'.

Even this was not enough to tempt Beany.

The fashion designer is absolutely gorgeous, however I can see how Beany might have seen her as being very very scary. Drinking didn't help the situation either and there may have been one occasion where he actually ran away from her.

She did often ask why he wouldn't marry her and he often just looked at her in horror. Once he said it was because she had got with his best friend, she said this was just an excuse and they could get over it. Towards the end of the season she had worn him down a little bit and he conceded that if he was single in 15 years time he might think about it. She said she would be happy to wait. But like I said in the beginning, he has now moved to Portugal.

I saw her today, and she still thinks he dances like a God.

Those Girls Fall Like...

DOMINOS!

On Thursday night I dragged a work colleague to a bar in London Town. I had seen on that source of all knowledge, Facebook, that a band I had seen rather a lot in Meribel were playing. And they weren't just any band, it was Miss P's favourite band of all time, The Dominos.  Now Miss P was supposed to be there but had pulled out as her Grandma was sick. I was desperate to go. I needed live music again. As a seasonaire I saw bands 3-4 times a week. Granted they were the same bands over and over again but most of them were bloody good.

So after another day of protecting the nation's great heritage, my colleague came with me on the promise of good music and good food.

I wasn't really expecting the bar where they were playing to be as upmarket as it was. I felt slightly out of place in my jeans amongst all the City Suits. But at least I had on really good shoes. While I was in the Alps my mum sent me a pair of 6 inch stiletto heels, which were, potentially the most impractical thing anyone could have in a ski resort. They were beautiful though, and I occasionally just wore them round my house. So I ventured out in them for the first time to see the Dominos. Wearing heels has become a bit of an odd concept for me after spending six months going out in very comfortable, fur lined apres boots.  I didn't have to think about it, they were my old faithfuls, and meant that I could walk into town, dance and walk home, all in the snow and my feel wouldn't hurt. However comfortable, fur lined, apres boots would not go down so well in London Town amongst all the suits and city boys.

So we walked in to a very upmarket bar, sat down at a table and were slightly shocked at the lack of pub food. What we could get was very expensive platters of mini food; mini burgers, mini pies, mini sausages, mini fish cakes etc etc.

I introduced myself to the lead singer with a message from Miss P and passed on her sincerest apologies. It was nice that they honestly didn't know what a change the had made in her and I told them just how grateful I was for this. They said that when they think of Miss P they think of copious amounts of Jäger bombs. For which I think she should be proud. I noticed the band were drinking jäger bombs which made me laugh and is proof that ok habits die very hard!!

I insisted that we sat rather close to the stage as I had no intention of missing anything. Within seconds of sitting down a rather drunk man in a suit came up to me with the eternally charming line, 'iv just missed a call from my mum, do you want to speak to her?' before pressing the call button and thrusting his phone in my face. After convincing him that I really didn't want to talk to his mother he moved away. At this moment the dominos opened their set (with a rather nice, shiny, new set of lighting, I noticed this due to my previously mentioned life long desire to be a roadie!).

The drunk man started dancing. And he was the most bizarre dancer I have ever seen. He was obviously the most bizarre dancer the Dominos had ever seen because they couldn't stop watching him. He repeatedly passed his leg over a chair and wiggle his bum in a horrifically embarrassing way. He also kept grinding against a chair. He wasn't even doing it to the beat of the music. He was most definitely dancing to his own tune. And he did these same three dance moved throughout the whole two hour set.

Watching the Dominos was like going back in time. I was back in Meribel. I was surrounded by Miss P and the Rep and the Fashion Designer and the Childcare Manager. We were having the best time, without a care in the world. Singing and dancing and laughing. And no one else in that bar got it. They didn't understand what they were seeing. They didn't understand that the Dominos were the top of the top in Meribel with the best spots in the best bars. I wanted to tell them all just how privileged they were in their suits, hanging out in their over priced bar.

And it made me a little sad because these boys should be playing to crowds of people who were excited to be there. In meribel these boys were rock stars, they had to get security to stop people running on stage, and I once saw a man being dragged off them.

During the break I got up to go to the loo and ended up talking to the band, who are all nice boys, very polite, they even got me a drink, which was nice. They all asked after Miss P and knew me as 'the blogger'. I told them all that when I found out Miss P, my 18 year old innocent, quiet, nanny had started talking to them I almost stormed up to them once to tell them to be nice to her, and that if any one of them upset her I would have come down on them like a tone of bricks. Miss P had begged me not to do this so I spent several weeks quietly watching from the sidelines until I was satisfied they were nice boys. I didn't tell them that on their last night in Meribel I had to stop Miss P from stripping down to her bra and that I practically had to hold her down and threaten her. There had been a running joke that at the end of the season she would throw her bra at them (this wasn't made up by Miss P but someone else) and I had made my feelings on this very very clear and it would not have been tolerated.

It was the second half that blew me away. It was during this where they sung all the songs that had made people go wild in Meribel (except, disappointingly they didn't play Mysterious Girl which the rep requested every night and made me and her go wild). The rep once told the drummer that he was her favourite person in Meribel because he was so good at the rap in Mysterious Girl. They did sing  the 'I Wanna be a Billionaire' song and changed the words to Seasonaire and dedicated it to me, after which I was over the bloody moon and text everyone I knew. They were all very jealous and I have had the song in my head ever since.

The girl I had brought with me was throughly enjoying herself but was rather shocked that I knew every single word of Stacy's Mom. The other day I watched the 50 best selling songs of the nineties with my sister and I knew every word to every song in the top 25. What can I say, everyone has to have a talent!

All too quickly it was over and I was back in London. If it had been the Ram Raid I would have hung around in the hope they would let me help pack up their van. But I thought this was a step too far as I know the Ram Raid and the Dominos would have thought I was really weird, not knowing about my roadie ambitions. At least the Ram Raid know me well enough to panda to my irritating behaviour.

I changed out of my heels and into some comfortable flat shoes to get the bus home.

So if you're in London, look up the Dominos on facebook or www.thedominos.co.uk and go see them, for they are brilliant. You might see me there, right at the front, dancing and singing. Hopefully they will be playing Mysterious Girl

A Rose By Any Other Name???

My name is Catherine. It has always been Catherine. Before I was born my parents were thinking about calling me Kate but when it came to it they thought I looked too serious a baby to be called Kate. So I was Catherine.  There are many ways to shorten my name, Kate, Katy, Cat, Cathy, Cate, Cath etc but I have always just been Catherine to all but very few of my closest friends who call me Cat out of laziness and I like them enough to let them get away with it.

Very early on in management training I realised my area manager kept referring to me as Cathy. Cathy is the one I hate the most. It reminds me of that pathetic woman in Wuthering Hights running round the Yorkshire Moors crying and Kate Bush looking windswept and singing 'Heathcliffe, Its me, your Cathy, I'v come home nowwww'.

So no, I do not appreciate being called Cathy. But aside from my area manager being one of the greatest women of all time, she was also very very scary. And I did not want to correct her. I was just about resigned to  her calling me that, to be honest she could have called me 'That fat bitch over there' and I really wouldn't have complained. But then it started to spread. The hotel manager called me it twice before I told him off and told him never to call me that again.

A few days later he said something along the lines of 'Your name is very long, what can we call you for short?'. At this point I probably should have said that my name was Catherine and that's what I wanted to be called. But in an effort never to be called Cathy again I said 'Cat'. And that was it. It stuck. I even introduced myself to everyone as Cat. Within a few days I had moved countries and unwittingly changed my name. I don't even know if half the people I worked with knew that my name was Catherine. The fashion designer was the only one who called me Catherine. She believed people should be called by their proper names, having a name that could be shortened herself.

Now I'm back in England I have reverted back to Catherine. But I still turn round when someone shouts Cat in the street hoping it will be one of my Seasonaires.

Being Prepared for any Situation, Including Needing to Post a Letter and Unexpected Sex

This story focuses around two of my personality traits, the first is that I like to be ready for any occasion. I have a fear of being caught without something that later proves to be imperative. For this reason I over pack where ever I go and my handbag would be lighter if I took everything out and replaced them with bricks. For example an average day in the life of my handbag would be carrying around a purse, two books (in case I finish the first one), some paper, two pens (a fountain pen and a ball point) a spare ink cartridge for my fountain pen, sun cream, hand cream, lipstick, lip salve, plasters, tissues, keys, mints, tampons, painkillers, a bottle of diet coke, my rail card, my oyster card, my ipod, my phone and some headphones. If I am going out in heels I am also guaranteed to have a pair of flat shoes in my handbag too. And this is just on a normal day. Like a boy scout, I am prepared for any emergency. I can cope with any crisis (though thinking about it I should probably purchase a mini torch and a set of screwdrivers). I like being this way, slightly neurotic I know, but it puts me at ease.

The second thing about me is that I am one of the many people out there, who in awkward situations, will say anything to fill the silence. I think most people can understand this. As a historian, a lot of the things I say are carefully considered, I like to think things through. But some things just come out. Everyone in the world does this!

So there comes that awkward time when two people who have decided to spend the night together, have got home, got to bed, removed  a certain about of clothing, done some kissing, and then being very sensible people (for as you know I aim to be sensible in all things at all times) know they cannot precede without introducing protection into the equations. I have always found this a rather tricky and perplexing situation. For what does one say? Both of you know what you are doing without it being said, there is no need for a conversation that goes 'please stop touching me for a minute because I am going to get a condom from my handbag because I neither want to have your baby or contract gonorrhoea or any other nasty diseases you could potentially be concealing'.

But during the actual act of rummaging round your handbag, with what do you fill the silence? In this particular occation I was quite worried that while I was ungracefully stretching about three meters for my handbag, the man in question might catch his first and only glimpse of my naked backside (In my head be had clamped his eyes tightly closed, this made me feel better).

So as I mentioned before my handbag was prepared for any occasion and I knew that my purse contained what I was looking for (it had in fact probably been carrying around the same one, waiting, since about 2008) but finding it in my handbag and then in the purse took rather a long time (all the while I am horrifically stretching, getting a little panicky) and for a second all I can see in my purse is bloody stamps! I write letters much more than I have sex so I'm always in need of a stamp.

And that was when I said it,

'I'v got some stamps'

If we re-look at the actual situation from LiF's point of view. One second the girl he has come home with is getting a condom out of her bag, thus sealing the deal that he is going to get some and she has returned from hanging off the side of the bed talking about one of the least sexual things in the world, stamps.

He started laughing. Hysterically. I started laughing.
'Why on earth would I want a stamp' he said wiping away tears of laughing.
'I don't know, but I'v got loads if you do'

He was laughing so much that the whole original purpose of me going through my purse was put on hold for a significantly large amount of time.

'But why did you say that?' he just kept repeating over and over again. And I still have absolutely no idea.

I tried to kiss him at one point to get him to stop laughing. It didn't work, he told me he needed a few minutes to recover. For a while I thought I had blown all my chances and was considering just giving up, getting my pyjamas on and turning the light off.

When I awoke the next day the offending condom packed was sat at the head of my bed. I was about to remove it when I got distracted and left for work.

While at work the fashion designer couldn't help but ask what all the laughing had been about.
'It was crazy laughing' she said, 'what on earth was he doing?' She had assumed that it was him that had done something silly and we were laughing at him. I told her the truth, 'But why did you say that?' she asked. I shrugged.

When I got home it struck me that the condom wrapper was gone. I found this very bizarre. LiF did not strike me as someone who would clean up after himself.

I found it two days later when I was changing my sheets hidden under a pillow. I never asked him why he felt he needed to hide it under a pillow. I would still quite like to know.

Being British

Being very very British at the embankment waiting to see the queen I have a very large waitrose picnic I purchased slightly drunk yesterday. I have lots of quiche. I keep being hit over the head by someone's union jack umbrella. About time to break open the champagne and hummus. Don't get this kind of thing up mountains

The queen is on all the stamps. I have a funny story about stamps

Offering to Snog the Boiler Repair Man

3rd January 2012 was not a good day. In fact it was just about the worst day I experienced in the Mountains. It started out fine. In fact I wasn't working till 3 so I got a lovely lie in and I went skiing before work (I didn't do this often but this was one of the rare occasions I did).

I had been in work about 3 minutes when someone complained about their shower being cold. I was used to this set of guests complaining. They were all from Wales. They enjoyed complaining. I didn't pay a huge amount of attention but sent the bar man (who had a great love of all things manly and so jumped at the chance at mending anything he could/ changing light bulbs) to go and investigate the boiler. He came back a few minutes later to say it had run out of water. I went to find the complaining Welsh lady and informed her to wait an hour and then try again. Half an hour later she had gathered a lynch mob to confront me at the reception desk,
'There is still no hot water and the heating has gone off, I need a shower and am freezing'
'Hear Hear' cried her accompanying Welsh lynch mob
I sent the bar man back to the boiler and once again he came back with the same story.

Ten minutes later the Welsh lynching mob had regrouped, stronger this time and they headed directly to the bar man to accuse him of lying to them.

Things had now become rather desperate and I was beginning to panic. I called the hotel manager who at this point was with his girlfriend in La Plagne and pointed out that there was the telephone number of the boiler repair man hidden somewhere in the office. As I speak only enough French to ask for a bottle of wine and where the post office is I had to get one of the assistant chefs to make the call.

Eventually they said they would come out the day after and I said 'no you will come out now' and they said they would do what they could. By this point I was fielding complaints from 60 angry and cold welsh people (you would have thought they would be used to being cold coming from Wales) and I was getting a bit fed up of saying 'I am very sorry, we are working on it as fast as we can and I will let you know as soon as I know anything'.

I did contemplate hiding in the office with the door locked but soon the boiler repair man turned up. I brought out the assistant chef to translate. What quickly transpired was that we had run out of oil an couldn't get anymore till the next day.

My manager called back and said 'what ever you do, don't tell them we have run out of oil, they will think we are idiots', I wasn't convinced that lying to the angry welsh people was a great idea but went with it anyway. With dread in my heart I went up to each table in the bar and with my best 'I'm very sorry' smile on my face I said 'the good news the boiler repair man has come and checked things out, the bad news is that he can't get the right part till tomorrow' (that wasn't technically lying if you could oil as part of the boiler'.

They all spent the night enjoying having a good moan about the situation. It wasn't actually that cold. I think having something as big as being cold made the holiday for them, they obviously had a great time moaning and being vile to everyone. The staff did what they could, getting all the blankets and distributing them as if they were helping refugees after a major natural disaster. The angry welsh guests continued to treat the bar man as if he had lied to them on purpose.

As my shift ended I trundled home feeling like I had spent the last eight hours fighting a battle on three fronts and knowing it would start all over again when I got into work at seven am.

And it did. It was not a good morning. Every single person asked me for the exact time of the arrival of the boiler repair man. To each and everyone I repeated the same thing 'I am not sure but I believe it will be quite soon'.

And soon enough, like a mirage coming up the mountain, a truck filled with beautiful beautiful oil arrived in front of the hotel. I was actually ready to snog the driver. I would have done it. At that moment he was my dream man, the resolver of all my problems, of the longest 18 hours of my life. I would have given him anything. In reality he didn't really want anything from me. He just wanted to get the fuck out of the hotel and go home.

Soon after I went home myself to lie on the sofa of dreams in my chalet, close my eyes for an hour and then drink lots and lots of gin.

'Ohhh Shit I Did Not Mean To Do That'

I'm going to make one thing clear right from the start, I did not mean to do it. It was a total and complete accident. No part of me did it on purpose. I did not mean to do it and I was very very sorry. I really am sorry. Eternally apologetic.

It was shut down week. My job in shut down week was to clear out the laundry room, do the massive pile of washing (that never got any smaller) and count all the hotel laundry. It was a very long task and after a few days being stuck underground with no natural light and only my speakers and the sound of the washing machines and tumble dryer to keep me company I started going a bit mad. I was also getting a bit annoyed that as I was cleaning people kept dumping their crap in there. Bin bags full of crap everywhere.

I found yet another abandoned bin bag full of stuff. In it was a pair of shoes and a phone charger. I vaguely recognised the slightly scruffy pair of DCs as belonging to the head chef who had been fired a few weeks earlier. I did not want to bin them without checking so I took them up to chef to ask him. He agreed that he thought they were the head chefs and that it was ok to bin them. At this time, the KP came up to me and begged me to put a couple of his t-shirts in the wash for him. I agreed under the condition that the KP would take my bin bag to the bins for me. He thought it was a good deal and came down a few minutes later with three t-shirts and I took them to the laundry room.

I descended back into the Pit of Hell that was the laundry room and blasted out Frank Turner, Counting Crows and David Bowie and sang along at the top of my voice continuing with my delicate laundry classification system and cleaning. The washing machine finished and I put in a new load, slightly worried that I couldn't find the t-shirts I had agreed to wash. But I put that to the back of my mind as I knew I would find them for the next lot of washing that went in.

I decided I needed a break and some natural light so went up to the kitchen to have a cup of tea and try and steal some food. And as usual I stopped for a chat.
'Err have you found a pair of shoes in the laundry room? A pair of DCs?'

My heart stopped instantly.

I turned and saw LiF looking at me pointedly

Ohhh Shit

A hundred excuses and denials suddenly ran through my head as I peered round him to see with horror that the rubbish had been taken a long time ago.

Ididn'tknowtheywereyoursIthoughttheyweretheheadchefsIputtheminthebinWHYWERETHEYINABINBAG'I said all at once in a mumbled blur. Chef was looking at me and smiling and LiF was looking at me in absolute horror,
'You're joking right?'
'Why were they in a bin bag in my laundry room?'
I have a bad habit of giggling when I'm nervous and I don't think this helped the currently situation as I did not come across as sorry as I actually was. It was also not helped by the fact I could see Chef laughing behind him and that was making me worst.
'Chef said they belonged to the head chef' ('don't blame this on me' chef shouted still smirking 'you bloody binned them')
'But they didn't they were mine', he was beginning to look a mixture of very sad and very angry.
This went on for some time, I even offered to buy him some more. I eventually went back to the laundry room to see if by chance there was another bin bag with shoes in there. I did not hold out much hope but by that point I was willing to try absolutely anything. Five minutes later and I knew it was hopeless, suddenly H1 burst in to say that LiF and chef had gone down to the bins to get the shoes back. I hurtled out the door and down towards the bins without even stopping for a coat.

Let me tell you something about French bins. They are huge and go twelve feet underground. They have a big lid and a twelve foot long sack cloth giant bin bag. The bins nearest to us were just down the road. There were three of them for general waste and several for recycling. They were also shared with several other people and a hotel much posher than ours. When I got there they were both standing peering into one of them and were rather shocked to see me running towards them. Hope flickered in LiF's eyes before quickly dying away again as I shock my head.

'I am going to have to get in' LiF said after we had all stood staring into the bin for about two minutes.
'No you can't, its not safe' I said, ever the voice of health and safety. Then the guilt hit me again and I offered to get in instead. 'But wait', I said, 'If I get in there is no way you two dickheads will help we out, you will just leave me inside the bin and run off'.
'No I wouldn't let you get in' LiF replied rather kindly considering the fact that we were only there because I had thrown his shoes away and he promptly climbed into the bin.

Now this bin was quite full, it wasn't much of a drop and he started going through the bags. After a few minutes punctuated by his cries of 'ugh' and 'arg that's gross' and me and chef collapsing with laughter we decided it would be easier if he passed the bin bags up and we looked through them. I could tell which bin bags were not ours because the posh hotel had a much higher standard of bin bag than we did. The chefs could tell which were ours because they knew what food they had cooked. After about fifteen minutes a car pulled up and three people got out,
'Is there someone in that bin?' they asked in surprise,
'Err, yes, I actually accidentally threw away his shoes and now we are looking for them' I said as the two woman started to laugh.
'Good luck' they waved as they drove past.

Then LiF shouted 'there's loads of t-shirts in this bag'. I looked in and wondered why I recognised them, 'Oh crap they are the KPs, he gave them to me to wash, I wondered where they went'.
Both boys looked at me in shock
'What?' LiF said very slowly 'you binned his stuff too?'
I realised just how bad that looked. Both incidents were a complete mistake, a very careless one I admit, but a mistake. I was hoping that we could keep this second little mistake quiet but chef has never kept anything quiet in his whole entire life.

The boys got bored of that bin and moved to the next one which was ever so slightly less full that the last one. At one point I looked into the bin and LiF had his hand waving over a hotel sanitary bag.
'Argh DO NOT TOUCH THAT' I shouted into the hole. He jumped back and inquired what it was and if it had anything to do with periods.
'Yes' I answered now severely grossed out and desperate for a shower and clean clothes. I could feel the bin juice making its way through my clothes and on to my skin.

At this precise moment the bin men turned up
'Oh Shit' I said
'Oh Shit' chef said
'What is it' came the voice from inside the bin.

The French bin men looked very angry as they pulled up in their truck. There was by this point, a nice big pile of rummaged through bin bags by the side of the road. In very garbled French I just about explained that we had lost a pair of shoes and these very angry bin men suddenly started laughing. And they didn't stop laughing. They even helped look through a few bin bags. One found an old sandal and threw it down at LiF who was still in the bin, then started laughing a lot more. There was, in fact, a surprisingly large number of shoes in the bins, just not any DC trainers.

The bin men soon got bored and got hold of LiF by his arms and pulled him out before moving on to their jobs and taking away the cardboard recycling.

There was now only one bin we hadn't looked through. And it only had a few bin bags it it. It was, we estimated, about a nine foot drop.
'No' I said, with my health and safety head on once again.
'It will be fine' both of the boys said in unison. This did not make me feel any better.
'He can get in and then we can use the bin bags from the other bin so he can climb out' Chef said rather cleverly.

LiF lowered himself into the bin. There was a lot of swearing. And there was no DC trainers in the bin. It was however quite fun firing bin bags back into the bin towards LiF's head. Chef and I made it into a bit of a game. We found it hilarious, LiF did not. In fact chef and I had found the whole experience really bloody funny. The funniest was when LiF popped his head out of the bin so he could have a smoke. A little smoking head stuck out from the bin. His need for a smoke was understandable, by that point I felt like I needed a smoke.

In one final last ditch attempted I suggested we went back to the first bin as we hadn't looked through all the bags and try again.

And within minutes we had found them. There they were, still in their bin bag at the bottom of the bin. I was beyond shocked that we had actually found them. We had been searching through the bins for well over an hour by this point. We were dirty, tired, smelly and covered in a variety of unknown liquids. And I was completely freezing as I had gone down in just my t-shirt and it was beginning to snow. I did not feel it was the right time to mention my discomfort.

Now some people suggested I had thrown away his shoes on purpose because I was mad at him after our brief encounter. This was not the case at all, I was far from mad at him. Several others laughed and said he deserved it. I was also not one of these people. The irony of the whole situation was not lost on me though and his head sticking out of the bin was one of the funniest things I have ever seen.


The next day I was completely horrified to see him still wearing the coat he had been in the bin in. As I was controlling everything that went in and out of the washing machine I said 'Please just give me the coat, I will wash it'
'I'm not fucking giving you anything, it will go in the bin' was my sharp (and I feel, unfair) reply
'Please, I promise it wont, I just can't bare to see you in a coat covered in bin juice, you are in a kitchen for god's sake'

I then realised what I was doing. I was begging to be allowed to do a man's washing. I was letting down woman kind everywhere, what would the Suffragettes say? What would Germaine Greer say???????

However

That coat really did need washing.

And I had banned everyone from the hotel from using the washing machine.

I was stuck in the middle of two very conflicting ideas.

While I was having my internal debate with myself and an imaginary Germaine Greer, LiF said 'If you wash the jacket, can you put some other things of mine in too?'
'Yes' I said, banishing Germaine from my head, 'Go get them now'.
Five minutes later he came in with a pile of clothes, having his own internal battle over whether his need for clean pants out weight his total distrust of me.
I made him put the clothes into the washing machine himself as there was no way I was going anywhere near his dirty pants.
'I will try not to shrink them' I said as I turned the machine on. He looked at me with complete fear in his eyes.
'That was a joke' I said. He did not laugh.

As they came out of the washing machine I read all the care labels of his clothes and then tumble dried them. I then folded them nicely.
 'I am sorry Germaine, I am sorry, I promise I will not make a habit of washing the clothes of men I have seen naked, I will atone for my sins, I will' I repeted in my head while folding up his clean, dry underpants

Male grooming

I don't have a problem with male grooming. I know it is necessary and I really appreciate it. I just don't want to see it. I don't want to see it happening and I don't want to see the evidence of it. I just don't like the idea of men worry about their appearance. It's not very manly. I know this is odd and many women wouldn't agree but that's just the way I am. And I think it works both ways, no man wants to know that I regularly have my moustache removed with professional help (so does the fashion designer and several other women I know). No man wants to know that about a woman and I understand that. 

I never really think about, this until one day, on one of the rare occasions the child care manager, the rep and myself were all at home at the same time. The child care manager turned to the rep and said 'will you help me shave the hairs on the back of my neck? The ones I can't reach?'
'Err what?' she replied
Ugh I thought.
'Just right down the back of my neck please Rep? I can't do it myself'.
'You want me to shave your back?
'I do not have a hairy back' He stressed getting rather worked up.
The two of us had a great time when he got rather worked up about something silly and took to running with things to wind him up.

And he was very easy to wind up. Very easy. Like the time his friend came to stay and after he went home we took to talking about him all the time, asking how he was, until the child care manager was convinced we had both developed a massive crush on his friend. He got rather jealous and did not like it.

Anyway the childcare manager eventually handed over the electric razor. It was only when he was stood over the bath that the rep admitted she had never used clippers before. But by this time it was too late and she had him pinned.

When the deed was done they walked out the bathroom, she turned to me and mouthed 'he does have a hairy back. Iv shaved it off'

Ahhhh Bisto

'I just really want some gravy', the drummer of the Ram Raid said to me one Monday evening, 'I really miss gravy. The Ram Raid are all hearty Northern boys and as a fellow Northerner I understand the need to indulge in gravy with a whole host of meals. I had once bought horrible French gravy from the Sherpa and almost instantly regretted it.

'I would have picked some up for you when I was in England' I told him, 'but I have some friends coming over in a few weeks, would you like me to get them to bring some?'
'Ah yeah mate' he replied in his Lincolnshire drawl before sinking off into some daydream that involved sausages and mashed potato.

True to my word I contacted my friends with real jobs in England, ones who earned enough money to actually holiday in ski resorts, who agreed to purchase the gravy and bring it over. So about three weeks after the original gravy based conversation I returned to La Poste, gravy in hand feeling rather smug knowing how pleased they would be.

So I walked in and presented it with a flourish of 'I got you some gravy!!!', to be met by a series of very blank faces.
'Err thanks', the drummer replied

It hit me with a thud that he could not remember asking me to get this gravy and that I had, seemingly out of the blue, just presented someone I really didn't know that well, a rather cool musician who had tattoos and an ear ring, someone I was somewhat in owe of, with a jar of gravy. I must look like a complete head case I thought to myself. I made my excuses and went to buy a glass of overpriced but very nice wine.

I did later pluck up the courage to go and remind him that he had in fact asked for the gravy. He laughed and said he remembered. I think he then returned to his sausage and mashed potato dream and I went back and joined my friends. 

The Washing Machine's Greatest Enemy

'Just to let you know' the childcare manager said to me one Monday morning, 'The washing machine has broken, it just broke last night when my clothes were in there'
'So you broke the washing machine?'
'No, it definitely  wasn't me, I had nothing to do with it, It just happened that it broke when my clothes were in it'.
I have never heard anyone say anything with such certainty. He was 100% sure that it most certainly definitely was not his fault that the washing machine was broken. The rep was stood behind him pulling faces, making it obvious that she was convinced that it was his fault that the washing machine was broken.

'What happened to the washing machine' I said
'well I put my work uniform and some pants in it (I think he told me what he has loaded the washing machine with in case I thought he had put bricks in it or something) and then went to bed and forty minutes later me and the rep woke up because the house was shaking and there was lots of banging noises. I'm surprised it didn't wake you up'
I refrained from telling him that when there was loud banging noises and the house was shaking I put my pillow over my head and went back to sleep, I did not get up to investigate. I caught the reps eye and could tell she was thinking the same thing as I was.

The child care manager took our laughter as a sign that we didn't believe his washing machine story and his protests grew, 'My stuff had been in there for 40 minutes, it couldn't have been my fault or it would have broken earlier'
'you didn't close the machine properly did you?'
'yes I did. Forty minutes!!'
'you were tired because it was transfer day and just didn't close the machine'
'if it was my fault it would have broken straight away, not after forty minutes'

The washing machine repair man was called out and said he had never seen such a damaged machine. We got a new one. I never quite trusted the child care manger with it again. Frequent washing machine comments were a sure fire way to make him apoplectic and and repeatedly utter the words 'forty minutes!!!'

The Ram Raid Strike Again

Iv spent the evening in Shepherds Bush watching the Ram Raid. As you can imagine I had a very enjoyable evening. I had arranged for two people to accompany me, thinking that if one pulled out the other would still be there,. One pulled out a few days ago and the other pulled out at about midday. I was thrown into an instant panic. I wanted to go see the band but I couldn't go to a bar in London BY MYSELF!!!!! I would look like a right looser. I text around the very few people I know in London and got a few potentially possibly perhaps maybes and decided to get ready and go anyway. After a shower, 12 outfit changes and a new coat of nail varnish I set out for the bus. The walk through Peckham was as always interesting but uneventful and I got on the bus still full of hope. No one text me while I was on the bus. Except for Hutch who told me again just how sick she was and just how much she was sorry to miss it.

I got the bus to Oxford circus and had a wander round. I popped into a book shop to have a look at the 'Fifty Shades of Grey' book that has been all over the the news recently. I always enjoy a good semi- erotic woman's novel, but the thought of everyone on the train knowing what I was reading put me off slightly so I didn't bother.

Got the tube to shepherds bush and spend sometime walking the wrong way down the road (as I am prone to doing in London) until I eventually got on the right road.

Euphoric that I finally seemed to be going in the right direction tt dawned on me once again that I was planning to spend the evening sitting in a pub on my own. Women in their mid twenties (for unfortunately I am now approaching mid twenties rather than early twenties) do not spend Monday evenings on their own in a pub miles away from where they live. People cross the road to avoid the kind of people who go to the pub on their own. But by this time I was in shepherds bush, facing the right direction and walking briskly down the road and suddenly face to face with the bassist who obviously had no idea I was going to turn up but was rather pleased I had.

In fact rather than feeling like a massive looser I actually felt like one of the cool band entourage. Which was nice. And they all seemed genuinely pleased I was there. Whether they were or not is a different story but I like to think they were. And they all seemed very interested in my new job, my wonderful, geeky, history job. No where near as cool as their job but still quite cool.

And I was introduced to the bassists other female followers who turned out to be very interesting nurses who offered to take me out round London soon. The band were, as always, still very handsome, and still all smelt very manly.

I had a huge burger and a few glasses of wine and settled back to enjoy the show, I even got chatted up by two Irish men who told me they liked my hair. They didn't believe that any woman goes into the hair dressers and says 'do what you want, make it look nice' asI do. I have no idea what I'm talking about when it comes to hair. Not like the ram raid boys who are well up on hair conditioning products.

They were, as always, really bloody good. And watching them felt like a warm comfort blanket. Within the scary , unfamiliar London walls, there was a little piece of Meribel. And as alway their set finished too soon. And as always they played none of my favourite songs (they do it to tease, and because I will eventually get so desperate to hear Marc Bolan's 20th Century Boy that I will have to hire them and pay them to play it)(which I am not beyond doing if I ever earn any money).

I felt privileged that when they played their own stuff as I already knew it and already loved it. And when they had finished I got very excited to pretend to be their roadie again! God I had missed being a roadie. Carting all the gear around. Looking at hundreds of different types of wires. Pretending I really was cool enough to be there. Being a roadie really is my dream job.

And then it was over. Time for me to say goodbye with no inkling of when I would see them again, other than some vague promises to come and look round the museum in which I work.

So at one in the morning I made my way to the bus stop to find my way back home. I hadn't been at the bus stop more than 30 seconds when the man approached me for a conversation. He was obviously rather drunk and spent ten minutes telling me I was beautiful and an angel and he hoped that one day I would be his girlfriend. I have already written of my distrust of anyone who calls me beautiful and this man was no exception. He spent some time trying to get my telephone number and telling me to ring him if I had any problems getting home. I told him I had a boyfriend. I was prepared to use any man I knew as a potential boyfriend and wasn't far off from getting Ram raid to swing round and get rid of him. I finally got him to go away with the promise that should I ever be in shepherds bush again and in need of a coffee and a friendly Algerian I would give him a ring and consider him as my next boyfriend.

I don't know if he was aware that I was stood on the wrong side of the road for the bus. I suspect he was too drunk for that. But eventually I realised and decided to cross the road and get the night bus.

Some things are just so much easier in the mountains.

Today has not been a good day. All the trains to work were cancelled so I had to get a bus miles away and then get a train. I was an hour late for work, this was totally acceptable however and a Hitler wannabe didn't make me do any star jumps outside. I went to look round a house to find that all the housemates were really weird (the one who showed me round kept telling me about his operations and then just walked into other peoples bedrooms) and the house was packed full of junk and smelt funny. On the way home, which is the repeat of this mornings stupid trip, I paid with my oyster card totally forgetting I had bought a ticket this morning! And I am starving and it's Sunday so I can't go to a supermarket an buy food.

It's not like this in Meribel. First of all public transport is regular, predictable and free. And the routes never change. And I didn't even have to use it to get to work, I walked! It took fifteen minutes.

Secondly I didn't have to worry about finding my own accommodation. Someone else did it. And it was lovely, the people I shared with weren't that weird and they didn't talk to strangers about their operations (though the child care manager had once had a really gross operation on his eye but he waited a while before telling us about it). The house didn't smell musty and although we had a few unusual kitchen utensils and enough plates for 25 people it wasn't full of crap.

Thirdly on a Sunday evening I could get food from work. Easy.

So I'm still on my mammoth commute home so wish me luck that I get home before midnight. At least I have two days off in a row now.

Bugger it Im getting a takeaway.

Post script

After I got off the bus I walked past a tesco's express. Oooh I thought, I will pop in there, have a look round, see if anything takes my fancy. The only thing that took my fancy was a lovely looking lemon tart. So I bought it, and some milk and some diet coke and decided to revert back to my initial plan of getting a take away. I walked to the take away. And it was closed. As the despair flooded through my body I realised exactly why I fancied chefs. For moments like these when I wanted nice food and just couldn't face cooking anything. Not that LiF cooked anything. He just kind of chopped things. Once when we were in the flirting section of our interactions he told me that in his old hotel he had been responsible for about 50% of the cooking. I pretended to believe him.

Anyway I decided to walk to find a take away. I walked and walked and one eventually appeared. And it was open. I moaned so much about my day to the woman behind the counter that she gave me free prawn crackers. I ate the Chinese in bed. It was immensely satisfying.

Watching doctor who while eating Lemon cheesecake, I needed this moment. Some people might say there are reasons why I am single.

Everyone's Ever So Friendly Here in the Mountains

Ski resorts are tiny. Even the big ones like Meribel are tiny. They only have to provide enough for a weeks worth of activities for the average holiday maker. And mostly they ski so don't really need much extra entertainments. There are only a couple of food shops selling over priced essentials, all the other shops only sell ski gear and the bands are on a weeks rota, playing in the same bar, at the same time, every week and usually singing the same songs.

It might be hard to understand how seasonaires don't get bored living there for six months. Well they make their own entertainment, they get to know all the other seasonaires and they generally get on with their tourist hating lives.

And they pull each other, all the time. And nothing is secret on a season so everyone else knows too. And because everyone knows everyone, everyone knows who you have pulled and who they have pulled.

Back in the UK it wouldn't really be generally acceptable to pull a girl, her room mate and her best friend over the course of 6 months. But I suppose there are most people to choose from in England.

We once had a guest who was a sexual health doctor. She told me that STIs must be rife in ski resorts. She was right of course, if one person got something the chances were everyone else would get it too (well ALMOST everyone). Thats how close people were as a team. We had a very loving, friendly sort of team. One that was potentially rife with disease. I do hope that they have all been to the doctor for tests since getting home.

I must admit I wasn't involved in this loving behaviour. I couldn't think of anything worst.

However

Saying that

After the whole LiF debacle I phones my dear friend Hutch for some sensible conversation and advice.
'so the two men you have pulled this season know each other'

'err yes, I suppose they do' I replied as I realised that in fact one had been the others boss for several months and that they were actually good mate.

'it's all to incestuous for me' she replied with disgust.

I must admit it has bothered me slightly ever since.

When Fashion Goes Bad

The fashion designer was a great drunk. She didn't drink very often. But when she did it was spectacular. She wasn't like a lot of the others, getting plastered and vomiting down herself. She was just always really really happy. And then she went to sleep. She once went to sleep behind a speaker in the pub in between the breaks in the Domino's last ever set, when they started up again she woke up and did loads of dancing. She is a great dancer, she has such an individual sense of rhythm. 

The fashion designer changed a lot while in Meribel, a completely different side of her appeared after only a couple of weeks. I think it was brought on by a sudden need to stand up for herself. Out came a very independent, go getting attitude. She changed from being a very conservative, modest, border line virginal women over night. 

Nothing sums this up more in my mind that her activities one breakfast towards the end of season. The head chef had made a sudden and very unwelcome clamp down on staff eating the left over guest hot breakfast. Over night it became banned. Now the kitchen boys knew this was rather unfair, as he was only doing it to be a dick and generally unpleasant in all ways.  Now the fashion designer developed a craving that morning. A craving for fried eggs. Achieving that fried egg seemingly became all she could think about and talk about. 'I just really fancy a fried egg' she said to me repeatedly. 

'Go ask chef or LiF for one then' I replied repeatedly. 

'How can I persuade them?' 

Absently mindedly, because I really was trying to concentrate on taking the guests' dinner orders, and she could be very distracting when she was moaning about something , I said 'offer to show them your boobs'.

She laughed and told me not to be silly and I went off to chaise some guests round the restaurant until they told me if they wanted pork or white fish for dinner. 

Twenty minutes later the two of us were stood in the area between the kitchen and the restaurant when LiF came out of the kitchen to get a mug for his coffee, without even blinking, without even thinking about it, she turned to him and said,

'If I show you my boobs, will you make me a fried egg?'

LiF almost dropped his mug in shock.

'Errr yeah...I will do anything for boobs' he stuttered back, unable to understand exactly what was happening to him, trying to work out if she was a) trying to trick him in some way or b) the chances of actually seeing breasts if he did make the fried egg. 

'Good because I really want an egg' she smiled and walked off. 

A second later he turned to me,'Do you want a fried egg too'? 

'Not if it means showing you my boobs sweetheart' I replied. 

A few minutes later there was a fried egg sat on the counter. The fashion designer took it. She didn't show him her boobs. I hope he isn't too disappointed. They are good boobs though, she showed them to me often, and I didn't have to provide her with any egg based products. 

The Reason I Have to Buy New Glasses

I have no idea where my crush on LiF came from. After all he looks nothing like Matt Smith, the 'Mad Man with a box', Doctor Who, who is in fact the perfect man. At least the lead singer of Ram Raid wears very similar shoes to the Doctor. Not the bow tie and braces though. No one wears the bow tie and braces. That's a great shame.

I am in fact quickly going blind and occasionally wear glasses (do not think that the type of men I am attracted to and the fact that my eyesight is deteriorating with my old age. I have had been attracted to the strangest people for years).

One day I walked into the kitchen most probably looking for something to eat but I hung around for a bit of a chat with Chef when LiF turns round to me and says 'I have such a thing for women wearing square rimmed glasses'. I was slightly taken a back at this out of the blue comment.
I, out of slight embarrassment that I had been singled out like that in front of everyone, attempted to take my glasses off.
'No, keep them on' he said. Then he said something rather rude about going into the toilets in the back. Now although flirting levels had increased ten fold in the couple of days preceding this comment I had seen how disgusting those toilets were and you wouldn't catch me anywhere near them in a million years. So I politely declined his offer. Not that I would have taken him up on this if they were the cleanest toilets in the world.
After that I couldn't wear my glasses without a comment or a look from someone. Every time I wore them I felt a little bit guilty.

Now Easter Sunday was, like all other Sundays, a transfer day. This involved very long hours and lots of cleaning. For one of the only times I decided to go out on transfer day to Toss the Boss at Jacks (whether I had ulterior motives for going out that night I will leave it up to your to decide)

It was an odd night in which 'my friend fancies your friend' was said many times. I didn't know that people over the age of 11 said this but apparently they do. Horrifically embarrassed that the attention was suddenly, inexplicably on us, we decided it was probably best just to leave quietly and walk home. He had to stop many many times on the way up for a rest. He should have been used to walking up mountains by that point but he obviously wasn't.

By the time we got back the fashion designer was already home having got a taxi and was making her bed up in the living room. LiF was rather pissed off that she had got a taxi and he had had to walk all the way. I maintain that this exercise would have done him some good and this it was another sign that he was not made to be a smoker. He then spent rather a long time exploring my flat, 'you have a microwave! that's not fair', 'you have a dishwasher! That's not fair, 'You have a bath! That's not fair'. He went on in this way for some time.

I left him at home the next day when I went to work secure in the knowledge that the fashion designer would look after him. She has been known to make little packed lunches up for the people her housemates have brought home and I fully expected her to do the same this time. He might be rather disappointed to find this out because in the end he only got a cup of tea (and that was earl grey tea because she didn't want to use up the limited supply of Tetley Tea, she got rather selfish in the mountains).

I was fully prepared for the huge level of banter levelled at the two of us that day (and for the next two weeks if I'm being honest) but it did come in think and fast from the second I got into work and then multiplied when he walked in three hours later. It was partly because people were so shocked at the complete contrast between the two of us. And shock that I had finally pulled after six months. However I had rather to many 'oh but I thought he was gay' comments for my liking. I was however pleased with myself for being able to take and answer back all the things flung at me. Chef actually said that he was quite proud of me for this and it was proof that I was cool. LiF on the other hand could not take it at all and actually looked upset every time. After a week of this I had had enough and as something rude was being said as I was leaving the kitchen, I walked back in and said 'for god sake just answer them back' before leaving again.

In the interim I received a couple of text messages from him, one referring to me as 'my lovely' and the other as 'sugar'. Now I'm not great with affectionate nicknames, I'm just not that kind of girl. And this was no exception. I tried to ignore them. I came into work one day and Chef repeatedly called me sugar. I have no idea how he found out and I don't want to know. I replied that Sugar is the name of a character in one of my favourite books, she was a Victorian prostitute. LiF continued to look embarrassed. He didn't called me sugar again though thank god (I did get a 'my lovely' again though when he wanted me to buy him a lighter. I ignored that too).

About a week later I walked in to the kitchen to see the kitchen boys huddled round the kitchen bench.

Now I understand that it was shut down week. I understand that they were bored. I understand that they were sick of cleaning. I don't understand why this all leads to LiF snorting black pepper through a rolled up bit of paper. I had stood and watched this with complete disbelief. This was potentially the stupidest thing I had ever seen anyone do. When I asked him why he was doing this he replied that snorting things was just something he had always done. Apparently the worst thing he had ever snorted was washing powder.

Now I saw him do a series of odd things that week. This mainly involved him wearing something he had stolen from the lost property box, like bibs, children's t - shirts and shorts. Every time I saw him dressed like that I found it slightly disturbing.

Now as you can imagine a week of cleaning is really boring. Unbelievably boring. And tedious. Very tedious. I understand this. Now mid week I walked into the kitchen again (I really did seem to spend a lot of time in the kitchen now I think about it) and the kitchen boys were talking about yoghurt. A odd topic of conversation you might think. I thought the same. Chef turned to LiF and asked him to snort it. Yes that's right, you read it correctly. He asked him to snort yoghurt. At that moment the hotel manager walked in to the kitchen. The kitchen boys all suddenly pretended to be on their best behaviour and swiftly moved in front of the line of yoghurt that had now been specifically arranged for the purpose. I managed to distract the manager and walked him out of the kitchen before doubling back and coming back in. The yoghurt had by this point been 'cut' with lemon juice. And then he snorted it. I watched him do it. It was beyond weird. Indescribable. I have never seen anything like it.

A few weeks after I came home I was talking with a mutual friend who worked with him in Courchevel and she told me this story 'basically one night during shut down week, after far too much to drink and after all of the sensible people had gone to bed some of the boys decided they would try and put alcohol hand gel on their bodies and light it. He was the only person stupid enough to do it and ended up with the most HUMONGOUS blisters on his back, arse and i believe gooch you have ever seen'




I was talking to some one else about him and they said it was amazing how he made such an impact in such a short time, the area manager once told me he was her favourite employee of the season and one girl said she had wanted to shag him for ages because she imagined he was into really weird things.

I still think of him when I put my glasses on at work, its a bit embarrassing really. I start day dreaming and thinking about his tattoos. I always wanted to look at them in detail and I never got the chance. That is why I need to get new glasses.