The fashion designer and myself had, for the first time ever, the same day off. It was also pay day. My ever so slight aversion to skiing, plus the fact it was the end of season and the snow was melting fast meant that it was decided we should visit the spa in Meribel centre. The fashion designer seemed to be some kind of spa junky, and as she hadn't visited one in a while, was suffering some little what. I had never been to a spa before. I had never actively avoided them, they just really weren't on my radar.
Firstly she informed me that it just wasn't the done thing to wear a bikini in a spa. I didn't have a swimming costume so she lent me a top that covered my middle section. It didn't seem to matter that this top, although it seemed to be made out of Lycra (not a material I tend to go for in clothes) wasn't actually designed for swimming.
We walked to the centre discussing current events and bumped into one of the Ram Raid who told us how he was going to a talk about the dangers of drug dealing which was being held that night in a cheese shop (that's no joke, he actually was). We told him we were going to the spa. He said some rather strange things and made his goodbyes and we were half way down the road when we realised he thought we were going food shopping.
I don't know what I expected from the spa. I think I thought I was going to have a massage and have mud put on my face and I was going to emerge actually glowing and a stone lighter. This didn't happen. We were given robes (that had rubbed up against god knows how many people's nakedness, I dont care if they have been washed) and we were shown to the shower, sauna, steam room and hot tube. I was slightly disappointed. We were told about the unlimited tea available. I felt better.
The fashion designer - lets re name her the spa nazi - had planned our trip down to the last second. First steam room. This was fine, I don't mind them. Although after about 10 minutes I find it a bit hard to breath. And it's difficult to sit on the seats without sliding off because they are so wet.
Then we go to the sauna. Again I quite like saunas. However the spa nazi believes that you have to be in the sauna for about three hours until your brain boils and your eyeballs explode. I was actually melting and she was complaining it just wasn't hot enough. After a winter in the Alps, a wet April in Yorkshire feels rather tropical. I thought I was going to die and said I was going to check out the hot tube whether she liked it or not.
She came with me
The only other person in there was a fat French man in tiny swimming trunks. They left nothing to the imagination. But it was quite big and I was as far away from him as possible . I spent some time enjoying the bubbles. And then needed a cup of the unlimited tea I had been promised some time (about 20 minutes) earlier.
I was a little confused as to where the tea was. There were two urns. But one contained hot water claiming to be flavoured with elderflower and the other apple and lavender (or some such other non Earl Grey, non English Breakfast not actual tea flavouring)
The spa nazi was in her element. 'This is just soooo good for you' she drawled.
Then she dragged me round and made me do the whole thing again!
Next time I at least want a massage from a hot man wearing a very small towel. And for there to be mud involved. And for me to leave with my skin actually shimmering.
Wednesday, 19 September 2012
Wednesday, 22 August 2012
Ok yet another new video from the Ram Raid.
Here is a link to the Ram Raid's new video.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DUDKeslAguc&feature=youtube_gdata_player
It mainly features the handsome Jim playing drums, Abe talking about his prowess in the pizza making department and Sean pulling funny faces. They are a multi talented set of very nice boys.
Not sure why the tags for this video include 'bitches' 'hoes' and 'the x factor'. Because I can't see it having anything to do with any of those things
I'm also very impressed with the 1940s aeroplane clip at the beginning. Like a bit of history with my Rock music!
Watch the video, get excited, get ready to order their new CD (and if you do order it, tell them that Seasonaire in the City introduced you to them and maybe, eventually they will give me a free copy)
Don't let the fact they are from Grimsby put you off. It's very Rock and Roll Grimsby.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DUDKeslAguc&feature=youtube_gdata_player
It mainly features the handsome Jim playing drums, Abe talking about his prowess in the pizza making department and Sean pulling funny faces. They are a multi talented set of very nice boys.
Not sure why the tags for this video include 'bitches' 'hoes' and 'the x factor'. Because I can't see it having anything to do with any of those things
I'm also very impressed with the 1940s aeroplane clip at the beginning. Like a bit of history with my Rock music!
Watch the video, get excited, get ready to order their new CD (and if you do order it, tell them that Seasonaire in the City introduced you to them and maybe, eventually they will give me a free copy)
Don't let the fact they are from Grimsby put you off. It's very Rock and Roll Grimsby.
Tuesday, 21 August 2012
Just to be fair- The Dominos
The Dominos are playing this Thursday at Agenda, London and next Thursday at The Gable, Moorgate.
Go see them.
They are also asking for song requests. I am writing a long list.
The list may or may not include mysterious girl (ok it does)
Go see them.
They are also asking for song requests. I am writing a long list.
The list may or may not include mysterious girl (ok it does)
New Ram Raid video
Watch, appreciate, look them up, go see them live, buy their stuff.
Get excited
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1YxF1RXwtQM&feature=youtube_gdata_player
Get excited
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1YxF1RXwtQM&feature=youtube_gdata_player
Sunday, 19 August 2012
The week the geography teacher came to stay.
The childcare manager had gone on about his friend coming to stay for months. In fact he had first brought up the subject on the first day we moved in together. The geography teacher was coming at February half term (obviously the school holidays). By that time we had all settled into the routine of life in the mountains. We knew Meribel like the back of our hands.
The closer we got to the week of his arrival the more excited the childcare manager got. And he pretended he wasn't excited but he was. He was the most excited I had seen him since he found out the rep was coming to live with us.
Sunday night was Toss the Boss night at Jack's, a bar in town. Toss the boss is legendary in Meribel. On a Sunday night every Seasonaire in Meribel packs themselves into Jack's, where, for every round you buy, you roll a dice with the owner. If you score higher, you get the round free. The cynic in me says that this just leads to queuing up for your drink much longer than you ordinarily would have done. And that as half of Meribel is there, the queue for the toilet is astronomical. I am that cynical about it because I never won. However, more often that not, I was so knackered from transfer day I couldn't muster the energy to go. For me, transfer day often meant my alarm went off at 4.30am and I worked right through till 7pm. This did not usually put me in the party mood and when most people were 'Tossing the Boss', I was at home in my PJs.
The Sunday before the arrival of the geography teacher, the childcare manager, the rep and myself were sat in our living room. We were so tired from a knackering transfer day that we were sitting motionless, preserving the tiny bit of energy that we had left so we would be able to make it from the living room to the bedroom. The rep has sweets. She always had sweets.
The childcare manager turned to us both and said 'next week I have to go to Toss the Boss'. He went on to explain that as his friend was coming to stay, he would have to take him out and show him a good time. And that would involve toss the boss. And going out after transfer day. He tried to stir himself up, encourage himself like an athlete before a race, 'I can do it, I can!', and then a little less energetically 'I must, I have too'. Even the thought was making my brain ache, so I went to bed.
The next week rolled around. The child care manger was over excited. I didn't meet the geography teacher on the Saturday he arrived. When I got home from work he was already fast asleep on the sofa. He was still asleep when I went to work at 6 am the next morning. I was on a split shift and managed to have a nice nap in the middle of the day. I was therefore not totally desperate to pass out and I went to Toss the Boss.
It was full of people. And the child cre manager and the geography teacher we all but looking longingly into each others eyes. There was no doubt it was a beautiful bromance.
I didn't win any rounds at Toss the Boss. I went home. Knackered.
It was nice having the geography teacher in the house. He was usually there when I came home from work. And he was always up for a nice chat. And he was fully prepared to gang up on the child care manager, which was always good fun.
Along came wednesday après and luckily I had the afternoon off. I had gone along to Meribar to write some letters and have a pizza. And to get a good table to watch The Ram Raid (not written about them in a while, but they were always there). I had bigged up The Ram Raid to the geography teacher and I could tell he was intrigued.
About fifteen seconds after everyone arrived and interrupted my peaceful perving, the child care manager suggested buying a bottle of toffee vodka. Quite early on he had figured out that us all putting in a couple of euros meant we could buy bottles rather than single shots, and this made it much cheaper. The child care manager's insistence on shots on a Wednesday was almost legendary, and had, amongst other things, led to certain members of staff stripping off and going swimming. It also meant that most people were in bed, wasted, by about 8pm. There were many occasions when I came home after work on a Wednesday and there was half a bottle of toffee vodka on the kitchen work surface and a snoring child care manager asleep with the door open.
So the child care manager managed to squeeze enough money out of us to buy two bottles of toffee vodka and a bottle of apple vodka.
The next hour and a half consisted of drinking shots and me telling people to 'bloody well sit down I can't see The Ram Raid'! This might or might not have got more and more aggressive as the liquid was drained.
When the band was finished I decided to go find food. I quickly decided I couldn't be bothered waiting and should instead go home and make pasta.
When I got home (about 8pm) the child care manager was fast asleep and the geography teacher was making his bed up in the living room.
I considered launching into a conversation about how history was way better than geography (I do like a good argument, especially after a few drinks) but instead put my pjs on (I am at most attractive when in pjs) and made a hot water bottle.
I was a little taken aback by the level of shock that radiated off the geography teacher when said hot water bottle was produced. He was quite rude about it. Comments such as 'no one under 60 has a hot water bottle' and 'they are just for old ladies who have lost the circulation in their legs' were banded about. I told him to sod off. And that my hot water bottle was the only thing that kept me warm at night. I then realised I was drifting in to dangerously embarrassing territory and that I had two options; either go to bed, or try to drunkenly come on to the geography teacher while wearing horrific pyjamas and holding a teddy bear shaped hot water bottle.
I took the hot water bottle to bed. Much (I expect) to the relief of the geography teacher.
The closer we got to the week of his arrival the more excited the childcare manager got. And he pretended he wasn't excited but he was. He was the most excited I had seen him since he found out the rep was coming to live with us.
Sunday night was Toss the Boss night at Jack's, a bar in town. Toss the boss is legendary in Meribel. On a Sunday night every Seasonaire in Meribel packs themselves into Jack's, where, for every round you buy, you roll a dice with the owner. If you score higher, you get the round free. The cynic in me says that this just leads to queuing up for your drink much longer than you ordinarily would have done. And that as half of Meribel is there, the queue for the toilet is astronomical. I am that cynical about it because I never won. However, more often that not, I was so knackered from transfer day I couldn't muster the energy to go. For me, transfer day often meant my alarm went off at 4.30am and I worked right through till 7pm. This did not usually put me in the party mood and when most people were 'Tossing the Boss', I was at home in my PJs.
The Sunday before the arrival of the geography teacher, the childcare manager, the rep and myself were sat in our living room. We were so tired from a knackering transfer day that we were sitting motionless, preserving the tiny bit of energy that we had left so we would be able to make it from the living room to the bedroom. The rep has sweets. She always had sweets.
The childcare manager turned to us both and said 'next week I have to go to Toss the Boss'. He went on to explain that as his friend was coming to stay, he would have to take him out and show him a good time. And that would involve toss the boss. And going out after transfer day. He tried to stir himself up, encourage himself like an athlete before a race, 'I can do it, I can!', and then a little less energetically 'I must, I have too'. Even the thought was making my brain ache, so I went to bed.
The next week rolled around. The child care manger was over excited. I didn't meet the geography teacher on the Saturday he arrived. When I got home from work he was already fast asleep on the sofa. He was still asleep when I went to work at 6 am the next morning. I was on a split shift and managed to have a nice nap in the middle of the day. I was therefore not totally desperate to pass out and I went to Toss the Boss.
It was full of people. And the child cre manager and the geography teacher we all but looking longingly into each others eyes. There was no doubt it was a beautiful bromance.
I didn't win any rounds at Toss the Boss. I went home. Knackered.
It was nice having the geography teacher in the house. He was usually there when I came home from work. And he was always up for a nice chat. And he was fully prepared to gang up on the child care manager, which was always good fun.
Along came wednesday après and luckily I had the afternoon off. I had gone along to Meribar to write some letters and have a pizza. And to get a good table to watch The Ram Raid (not written about them in a while, but they were always there). I had bigged up The Ram Raid to the geography teacher and I could tell he was intrigued.
About fifteen seconds after everyone arrived and interrupted my peaceful perving, the child care manager suggested buying a bottle of toffee vodka. Quite early on he had figured out that us all putting in a couple of euros meant we could buy bottles rather than single shots, and this made it much cheaper. The child care manager's insistence on shots on a Wednesday was almost legendary, and had, amongst other things, led to certain members of staff stripping off and going swimming. It also meant that most people were in bed, wasted, by about 8pm. There were many occasions when I came home after work on a Wednesday and there was half a bottle of toffee vodka on the kitchen work surface and a snoring child care manager asleep with the door open.
So the child care manager managed to squeeze enough money out of us to buy two bottles of toffee vodka and a bottle of apple vodka.
The next hour and a half consisted of drinking shots and me telling people to 'bloody well sit down I can't see The Ram Raid'! This might or might not have got more and more aggressive as the liquid was drained.
When the band was finished I decided to go find food. I quickly decided I couldn't be bothered waiting and should instead go home and make pasta.
When I got home (about 8pm) the child care manager was fast asleep and the geography teacher was making his bed up in the living room.
I considered launching into a conversation about how history was way better than geography (I do like a good argument, especially after a few drinks) but instead put my pjs on (I am at most attractive when in pjs) and made a hot water bottle.
I was a little taken aback by the level of shock that radiated off the geography teacher when said hot water bottle was produced. He was quite rude about it. Comments such as 'no one under 60 has a hot water bottle' and 'they are just for old ladies who have lost the circulation in their legs' were banded about. I told him to sod off. And that my hot water bottle was the only thing that kept me warm at night. I then realised I was drifting in to dangerously embarrassing territory and that I had two options; either go to bed, or try to drunkenly come on to the geography teacher while wearing horrific pyjamas and holding a teddy bear shaped hot water bottle.
I took the hot water bottle to bed. Much (I expect) to the relief of the geography teacher.
Sunday, 5 August 2012
The fireman calendar.
So, iv just been home for a few days and picked up some things. Amongst the things I brought back to decorate the blank walls of my rented room was my fireman calendar. That calendar represents one of the biggest disappointments I suffered while living in France (followed by not meeting a single Russian billionaire, let alone a handsome one who wanted to marry me and never being able to finish a raclette).
A few days before New Years two men walked into the hotel. I was someway off but was going over that way so hurried over to see what they wanted. They were talking to the manager who turned to me and told me that they were selling fireman calendars. Meribel fireman calendars.
'You should buy one' the manager said, 'always good to have the local fire service on side' he whispered 'let's not piss them off by not buying one'.
I was not thinking about getting in their good books by buying their calendar. I was thinking about having pictures of attractive firemen on my wall. By this time the rep had come over and her eyes had lit up with the prospect of the the firemen calendar too. We paid €5 for the calendar and the men made a swift exit. We hardly noticed them leave. We were ready to feast our eyes on the firemen.
Then, all gathered round the reception desk, the surprise and the disappointment set in. The calendar was full of pictures of road traffic accidents the Meribel fire service had visited. This is why the men selling it had made a quick exit, they knew it was crap and didn't want us to demand our money back once we had seen it. Each picture had several smiling firemen sat in the devastated wreckage of a car that had just come of the road. That seemed inappropriate at best. Along side these pictures were the smiling faces of firemen and women going about their daily business, in the office, in the cupboard where they keep the medical supplies, in the fruit and veg shop. Not a single handsome fireman wearing just a helmet with nothing but a fire hose to cover his dignity.
Me and the rep looked at each other with disappointment and then bust into laughter. It really was the most bizarre thing we had ever bought. We had just spent €5 on a load of pictures of road traffic accidents. We then precedes to choose our favourite picture.
The calendar when straight up on our living room wall and we showed it to everyone who came to the house. It made me smile every time I looked at it. It still does. Which is why it is now up in my house in London. And I will continue showing it to everyone who comes round.
A few days before New Years two men walked into the hotel. I was someway off but was going over that way so hurried over to see what they wanted. They were talking to the manager who turned to me and told me that they were selling fireman calendars. Meribel fireman calendars.
'You should buy one' the manager said, 'always good to have the local fire service on side' he whispered 'let's not piss them off by not buying one'.
I was not thinking about getting in their good books by buying their calendar. I was thinking about having pictures of attractive firemen on my wall. By this time the rep had come over and her eyes had lit up with the prospect of the the firemen calendar too. We paid €5 for the calendar and the men made a swift exit. We hardly noticed them leave. We were ready to feast our eyes on the firemen.
Then, all gathered round the reception desk, the surprise and the disappointment set in. The calendar was full of pictures of road traffic accidents the Meribel fire service had visited. This is why the men selling it had made a quick exit, they knew it was crap and didn't want us to demand our money back once we had seen it. Each picture had several smiling firemen sat in the devastated wreckage of a car that had just come of the road. That seemed inappropriate at best. Along side these pictures were the smiling faces of firemen and women going about their daily business, in the office, in the cupboard where they keep the medical supplies, in the fruit and veg shop. Not a single handsome fireman wearing just a helmet with nothing but a fire hose to cover his dignity.
Me and the rep looked at each other with disappointment and then bust into laughter. It really was the most bizarre thing we had ever bought. We had just spent €5 on a load of pictures of road traffic accidents. We then precedes to choose our favourite picture.
The calendar when straight up on our living room wall and we showed it to everyone who came to the house. It made me smile every time I looked at it. It still does. Which is why it is now up in my house in London. And I will continue showing it to everyone who comes round.
Friday, 3 August 2012
Left a bit, right a bit OWW Can we just stop now?
So im taking a break from writing this weekend. It's my birthday weekend and on Sunday I'm turning 25. Coincidentally the childcare manager is also celebrating his birthday on Sunday. He is a bit older than 25 though.
So as a bit of a rest someone else has written the following post. She emailed it to me after a twitter discussion about whether it was possible to have really good, earth shattering sex as a Seasonaire. Or if it is always just a bit awkward and not really worth the grief you get from everyone else the next day. Interesting debate and feel free to have your own input. So in answer to my question I had a rather impassioned reply I just had to share. I have done a slight bit of editing to remove names, places and job titles!!! She's a brave girl!
Sex and the Seasonaire: Is it possible to have good sex on season? Of course it is, but as always there’s going to be some good, some bad & some which can only be described as UGLY!
As my hotel’s ‘Cock Jockey’ of the season I feel I have valid input! Let’s start with the good;
When I set off on season I vowed to remain single, but never did I vow to stay celibate, I know myself too well to make such statements! When I arrived at Geneva airport ready for management training I was nervous, but when I saw the guy holding the clipboard the nerves kind of dissolved I looked at him and simply thought, ‘well, we’re going to have sex!’ its like a sixth sense which pops up every now and then. After a week of gentle flirting and some quantity of rum I found myself in this guy’s room, we were supposed to be topping our drinks up and heading back downstairs to the bar, we both knew it wasn’t really going to happen. We had the most hip shattering session, the kind of thing most people only actually think happen in the movies, we barely slept and hit my record of 6 times a night ;) I set off on the walk of shame the next days with a bruised spine & carpet burns on my feet that scarred! I rarely have one night stands, and this was not that kind of occasion, we continued having fabulous sex until said guy disappeared over the mountain for his season. Leaving me with a smile on my face everytime I look at my feet!
If only it was always so good;
Every now and then we would set off out and I would have one goal; to pull. Girls have needs and occasionally they just have to be met otherwise getting laid turns into a huge distraction/preoccupation. Anyway one night at somepoint over the season we set off out and I knew it was one of those nights, everyone from the hotel was out and I had the following day off. There was a guy in our staff who was slightly different from the others, the difference being he was nice. As assistant hotel manager, not many of the staff were nice, but he was ( I think its also because he's northern) anyway whilst out we were dancing & drinking and ended up kissing, we made our way back to the hotel and went on to have the most awkward drunken sex ever. It was so incredibly teenagerish it was like a sex scene from the inbetweeners, so bad the following day I did ponder the thought that I may have just taken his virginity! As time went on we hung out together a little bit and one night after a few drinks we got chatting, it became obvious that he thought that night had gone well and he’d put in a good performance, this scared me more than spiders!
And on occasions things happen which can only be described as ugly:
He pissed in my bed. A guy who was holidaying in the resort I pulled midweek came for a cheeky stay in my staff accommodation on his last night. We’d chilled out together over the week had some good, good sex and as it was his last night he wanted to see me for one last time. Obviously because this is how life works, I was on a breakfast shift the next morning so couldn’t go and stay at his hotel so risking everything & breaking all the rules I snuck him into the staff accommodation and he stayed the night. I should probably mention at this point we were both quite very drunk, we had some more good sex and fell asleep cramped up in my single bed. At some point in the middle of the night I woke up with a feeling of something warm washing over me… He was pissing in my bed, I kid you not! Naturally, as I was brought up to avoid all awkward situations, I moved on to the floor with a dry blanket. When my alarm went off the next morning I got showered, went to work and unsurprisingly returned to find the holidaymaker had done what I imagine was a very embarrassed runner needless to say we didn’t speak again.
There was also a guy who was in communal staff accommodation who had a deal with his room mates that the shouted Yabadabadooo!!! as they came... im not joking... he was a really good fuck too but that was a bit weird!haha!
So as a bit of a rest someone else has written the following post. She emailed it to me after a twitter discussion about whether it was possible to have really good, earth shattering sex as a Seasonaire. Or if it is always just a bit awkward and not really worth the grief you get from everyone else the next day. Interesting debate and feel free to have your own input. So in answer to my question I had a rather impassioned reply I just had to share. I have done a slight bit of editing to remove names, places and job titles!!! She's a brave girl!
Sex and the Seasonaire: Is it possible to have good sex on season? Of course it is, but as always there’s going to be some good, some bad & some which can only be described as UGLY!
As my hotel’s ‘Cock Jockey’ of the season I feel I have valid input! Let’s start with the good;
When I set off on season I vowed to remain single, but never did I vow to stay celibate, I know myself too well to make such statements! When I arrived at Geneva airport ready for management training I was nervous, but when I saw the guy holding the clipboard the nerves kind of dissolved I looked at him and simply thought, ‘well, we’re going to have sex!’ its like a sixth sense which pops up every now and then. After a week of gentle flirting and some quantity of rum I found myself in this guy’s room, we were supposed to be topping our drinks up and heading back downstairs to the bar, we both knew it wasn’t really going to happen. We had the most hip shattering session, the kind of thing most people only actually think happen in the movies, we barely slept and hit my record of 6 times a night ;) I set off on the walk of shame the next days with a bruised spine & carpet burns on my feet that scarred! I rarely have one night stands, and this was not that kind of occasion, we continued having fabulous sex until said guy disappeared over the mountain for his season. Leaving me with a smile on my face everytime I look at my feet!
If only it was always so good;
Every now and then we would set off out and I would have one goal; to pull. Girls have needs and occasionally they just have to be met otherwise getting laid turns into a huge distraction/preoccupation. Anyway one night at somepoint over the season we set off out and I knew it was one of those nights, everyone from the hotel was out and I had the following day off. There was a guy in our staff who was slightly different from the others, the difference being he was nice. As assistant hotel manager, not many of the staff were nice, but he was ( I think its also because he's northern) anyway whilst out we were dancing & drinking and ended up kissing, we made our way back to the hotel and went on to have the most awkward drunken sex ever. It was so incredibly teenagerish it was like a sex scene from the inbetweeners, so bad the following day I did ponder the thought that I may have just taken his virginity! As time went on we hung out together a little bit and one night after a few drinks we got chatting, it became obvious that he thought that night had gone well and he’d put in a good performance, this scared me more than spiders!
And on occasions things happen which can only be described as ugly:
He pissed in my bed. A guy who was holidaying in the resort I pulled midweek came for a cheeky stay in my staff accommodation on his last night. We’d chilled out together over the week had some good, good sex and as it was his last night he wanted to see me for one last time. Obviously because this is how life works, I was on a breakfast shift the next morning so couldn’t go and stay at his hotel so risking everything & breaking all the rules I snuck him into the staff accommodation and he stayed the night. I should probably mention at this point we were both quite very drunk, we had some more good sex and fell asleep cramped up in my single bed. At some point in the middle of the night I woke up with a feeling of something warm washing over me… He was pissing in my bed, I kid you not! Naturally, as I was brought up to avoid all awkward situations, I moved on to the floor with a dry blanket. When my alarm went off the next morning I got showered, went to work and unsurprisingly returned to find the holidaymaker had done what I imagine was a very embarrassed runner needless to say we didn’t speak again.
There was also a guy who was in communal staff accommodation who had a deal with his room mates that the shouted Yabadabadooo!!! as they came... im not joking... he was a really good fuck too but that was a bit weird!haha!
Wednesday, 25 July 2012
The Moment I Knew it was Time to go Home
'When deciding whether a man is stylish enough for us to want to get into his pants, we don't want to be able to actually see them, thanks' - Cosmopolitan magazine August 2012
By the end of the season I was tired. Tired of no sleep, tired of ham baguettes, tired of telling every boy who worked at the hotel to pull their fucking trousers up every moment of every day. I don't want to see your pants, the guests don't want to see your pants (the writers of cosmopolitan magazine don't want to see your pants).
I must confess that on more that one visit to watch the dominos, purely out of habit, I have had to stop myself telling them to pull their trousers up.
In those last few weeks I was tired, exhausted. The rep was exhausted, the fashion designer was too. The childcare manager had left for an amazing job he had been headhunted for, but he had been exhausted at the end too. All the staff were tired and everyone was excited about going home, seeing the people they really missed, having their mum cook then dinner. With still several weeks to go most people had emailed their mums with precise instructions for their first few meals at home (mine was Chinese takeaway on the Saturday night, black pudding Sunday morning, beef roast dinner with Yorkshire pudding on Sunday night).
But the moment I knew I had to go home came at the end of the last week. We had all gone out as a group to watch Bring Your Sisters at the last après of the season. Every one was tired of cleaning. Everyone knew it was the last one. That morning there had been a bit of a 'to-do' about face painting. Some people thought face painting might be a bit of a break of cleaning, others thought that face painting just prolonged the amount of time we had to clean.
However before the argument had commenced I had been told to sit in a chair and have my face painted. I had sat in the chair and as a consequence had some kind of pink glittery bear thing painted on my face. It was about this time when the argument started and suddenly there was huge division in the hotel. It was mainly as a result of people being over tired and taking out their frustrations that some people had been working much harder than others all week.
Anyway I was a bit caught in the middle, totally agreeing with the argument but looking like a bloody care bear. The afternoon dragged on and two thirds of the hotel became tigers, snakes, clowns, skeletons and butterflies.
This image was furthered greatly by the fact several people (including me) decided we should go out to après wearing our onecies. While making the 'what onecie shall I buy' decision I had thought that if I was going to get one, I should go all out and get the worst one going. So mine was (and is, because I do still sometimes wear it) half bright pink and half purple, split straight down the middle.
So just to recap I went out to the last après of the season with a face painted like a pink sparkly bear wearing a half pink, half purple onecie.
We hadn't left the hotel long before I realised my mistake. I did not feel one hundred percent comfortable with my attire.
So we watched Bring Your Sisters, who were amazing, the creme de la creme of après entertainment and during it almost everyone except me got completely off their tits. I'm not sure why I didn't. I wasn't really feeling it and I couldn't be bothered queuing up. And quite quickly everyone started to act like complete dicks. It was the first time in my life I have ever told anyone that 'they disgust me in every way' before. I hope it will be the last. I don't think they will ever remember me saying it to them. Someone vomited into their own hands and then carried on drinking (and they weren't even the person who was so totally repellant that I couldn't contain my disgust). I even caught someone trying to drink toffee vodka though their eyeballs (after which they went 'cat, cat, I can't see' and I could do nothing but call them a fucking retard and walk away)
Soon I had to leave and myself, the fashion designer and the rep want to get food. I was the only one of the three of us dressed so ridiculously and I text Hutch, 'help me hutch, I'm having a burger, and I'm dressed like a fucking care bear in a fucking onecie'. She replied simply 'Catherine, I think is time for you to come home, come back to London, be around normal people again'.
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'.
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
Saturday, 30 June 2012
The Best Sweets in the Worls.
They even taste bad for you. And they are the cheapest thing in Meribel. 
Friday, 29 June 2012
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!
'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.
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
Thursday, 28 June 2012
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!
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!
Wednesday, 27 June 2012
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.
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.
Monday, 25 June 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, 21 June 2012
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.
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.
Monday, 18 June 2012
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!
Sunday, 17 June 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, 16 June 2012
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!
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!
Thursday, 14 June 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, 13 June 2012
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
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
Monday, 11 June 2012
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
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.
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
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
Monday, 4 June 2012
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, 3 June 2012
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)