'Fessing up

So, it's that time of year again when people all over the country are packing their suitcases and setting off to spend six months of the year on snow covered mountains.

Do I wish I was with them??

No.

Not in any way shape or form. I am very happy here, thank you very much.

But it does cause me to think back to the good things I did, the bad things I did and the down right stupid things I did in my seasonaire days.

There has been one thing hovering about at the back of my mind since pretty much the night I got back to England, and, understanding social media the way I do, I have always known that this one stupid thing would make it's way out into the public conciousness eventually. As a certain person who got a really panicky text message that very same night will attest.

And so now it has.


In my defence I did not leave it there on purpose but I should have listened more to my mum when she said that you should always double check a room before you leave it to make sure you have not left anything behind. And I will always do this in the future.

And it wasn't through lack of cleaning that it was left there (as someone has suggested!) It simply must have fallen out of my suitcase. And to the person who found it, no thank you I do not want it back, you can put it in the bin.

Lets face it, I have written about much worst things than accidentally leaving a vibrator under the bed of the hotel room I lived it. I mean I have done stupider things.

But honestly, there really isn't much else to do when you live up a mountain.

Back in England - Update

Now I am back in England I have written a To Do list

1. Water plans before they die

2. Feed housemate's fish before they die

3. Find interesting and attractive man for dates, long conversations, hand holding and eventually babies

4. Buy Low fat Salad dressing from Sainsbury's

Finding a boyfriend is not as high up my to do list as it could be. In fact I know several of my close friends for whom this issue takes up much more of their time and energy than it does with me.

However it is further up on my list than eating low fat foods, so I figure it might be time to start actively start thinking about my future.

It's not that I don't occasionally meet men for mutual attraction, however I couldn't get the last one to commit to taking me out to dinner so getting him to commit to marry me would take a lot more energy that I am prepared to dedicate to the situation.

'You're not actually that bothered about being single' Said my wise housemate 'so maybe now is the perfect time to start looking for a man'.

'Where do you actually meet men' I said

'Well either at work, which is not an option for you as the heritage and museum industry is not known for its abundance of attractive single men, or through friends, but I don't know anyone either, or at a pub, but I'm not going to spend my evenings at the pub with you trying to eye up men when I could be at home. So you better start internet dating'.

Only the French

Picture the scene

The week before Christmas. Tensions and excitements are running high. Staff are all busy decorating the tree and the hotel. Hours are being spent on the plans for Santa's Visit, for making Christmas magic and for Christmas Dinner. Christmas songs have been playing on repeat for what sees like weeks, even if the song 'Driving Home for Christmas' has been banned because it makes me cry.

A few days before the big day itself I was summoned to the kitchen to be told that there was a bit of a problem.

'Err you know the Turkeys that were delivered'

'Yes'

'The ones that we were going to cook on Christmas day and have as the centrepiece for every table'

'Yes'

'The ones that I and all the other chefs were going to go out and carve for all the guests'

'Yes'

'They go out of date on Christmas Eve'.


Christmas turkeys that go out of date on Christmas Eve

Only the French would deliver those

Over Reacting

I must admit that, at times, I have been known to over react slightly. This is a tendency I have had since childhood and is not one I am willing to give up. Ever.

I am a firm believer that a good scream and shout and the banging of doors does everybody some good sometimes. Its a spring clean for the soul. After such a display I often wake up feeling a hundred times better and not remotely bothered about the event that caused the previous night's display of emotion. This is not to undermine the fact that the anger I was feeling at that moment was wholly and utterly truly real and justified. Over the the season I stormed out of everything from taxis (argument about my brother) and bars (a 'none argument' about ketamine) to the Meribel Village Charity Day ( an argument about the extend I did or did not defend someone's manhood when it was called into question). And this is just the angry over reacting that I did in public. There was a whole range of storming, swearing and slamming down of things that I did behind closed doors when I was on my own.

Now knowing myself as well as I do, I can look back on these incidents and say that, although I was always totally and utterly in the right every single time, I, on occasion could have handled the situations in a slightly calmer manner.

Now where is all this self assessment going?

Several times over the past few weeks I have chastised myself for not writing more on this blog. I work a 9-5 job, I have plenty of free time, why have I used it to do things such as ironing and rearranging all my kitchen cupboards and not to sit and write.

The reasons for this only dawned on me last night. It is because, although there were lots of great things about the season, there were also loads of really shitty things as well, things that caused me to storm out of bars, and be angry, and throw things and close my eyes and want to be back home. These things are, in my head, even now undermining all the rest. This has meant that subconsciously I have been avoiding delving too deep into my recent past.

I wonder to myself if this avoidance of examining the best things is a complete (delayed) over reaction. Because I often find myself thinking about skiing. I have already booked my next years ski holiday and even bought a beautiful pair of red glittery Volkl skis! So the love I have for the mountains is coming out in a series of very expensive ways (Expensive for my mum rather than expensive for me seen as she paid for both the holiday and the skis) (If I hadn't have added that bit on I would have received a very angry phone call)

Bloody hell hasn't this turned into something deep and which belongs in some kind of psychiatry session and not on a blog about seasonaires! 'Where are the drunken Nannies and the pyromaniac chefs,Where is the comedy sex?' I hear you all cry!

That is why am am determined to write more. This year the drunken nannies and the pyromaniac chefs, and yes, the comedy sex, might include some things that are more serious. This is my promise but also my warning. You, my dearest readers are now all my psychiatrists.

The 100th Post

So, this is my 100th blog post. I feel that this occasion should be marked in a dramatic way, with some big declaration or by revealing a well kept secret;

It should be in the 100th blog post that I announce that I'm pregnant and after careful consideration am keeping my season baby and am dedicated to my future life as a single mother.

Or that I have decided that after a month in the City I miss my life as a hotel manager so much that I have already arranged to go back and do it all again.

Unfortunately neither of these are true and I don't have a big decoration to mark this special moment.

Do you feel somewhat let down now? I do.

Instead I am sat in the sun, daring it to burn my mountain white skin, wondering what I should fill this blog post with. One of the last time I was sitting in the sun like this I was at the Ronny watching the DC riders performing, drinking beer by the jug. I am contemplating putting my bikini on but I have a very overlooked garden and it might be much for my South London neighbours.

I was looking through old old bits of of my facebook the other day and came across a post I had written on 27th June 2012, it said 'Just accepted the Job! Back to Meribel this winter! Not sure if this is the best of the stupidest decision I have ever made!' Now the interesting thing about this post, other than my over excited, excessive use of the exclamation mark, is one of the comments 'Its definetly the best decision youve ever made!'. As a historian I am tempted to write the word sic after that quote to show it is a direct quote and has has been copied as it was written, without modern alterations to grammar or spelling. But seen as I am one of the worst spellers in the world it would be slightly hypocritical. It also shows he loves the use of the exclamation mark almost as much as I do!

I wonder if AJ remembers writing that on my wall. I doubt it. Neither did I till the other day. It did get me thinking, I was sure that he had contacted me just before I flew out, because I had known he was going to be there before I went. I had another look on facebook and sure enough there was a brief conversation from the 8th October;

AJ: Hey you managing the (xx) this year?
Me: Yep
AJ: Ahhh cool im going back there
Me: to the (xx)?
AJ: Yes indeed
Me: Cool cool
AJ: Do you know anyone else going back?
Me: I don't actually
AJ: I know the head chef but thats it. Anyway im off to the pub. X


A somewhat short exchange I feel. And rather brisk on my part. I usually talk a lot  more than that.

What I do remember thinking after this conversation is 'Hmm I wonder if it is unprofessional to be facebook friends with someone who is going to be working in the hotel, what if he shows all the people who I am going to manage my facebook or worst still, my blog'. Looking back it was a somewhat ironic thought. But at least I was trying to be professional.

Sometime in mid February I was hanging round the kitchen, hoping someone would give me some food AJ mentioned something on his facebook that I should look at. It was at that point I had to confess that we were  no longer facebook friends and hadn't been since mid November. I think, judging by his horrified reaction, was the single biggest insult I ever threw at him. Considering the range of insults we throw at each other on a regular basis, it is saying something.

It took me a couple of days, a lot of cups of tea, and a facebook friend request to patch up the damaged pride. Though after this I wished it was that each to repair pride that had been damaged on a throw away moment.

 In the end going back to Meribel was neither the best or the worst decision I have ever made. The worst decision I have ever made was in 2007 when I decided to go platinum blonde, the best was going the first time.

A Michelin Star

Its official. I am an actual domestic goddess. I know I am and, while I have suspected this for some time, it was confirmed to me today only about an hour ago. I don't work Mondays and as my house mates are either at work or on bloody holiday I have had the house to myself and I have spent the day making a range of culinary delights.

What I was really worried about during the last few weeks of the season was how I would feed myself when I got back to England. I knew I would be all right for the first week back, as I would be at home my mum would do the cooking. It was after that, when I moved into my new house 250 miles away from my mother and her oven that I was nervous about.

What was worrying me was having to cook for myself for the first time in six months. I hadn't as much as boiled some pasta since I got on the plane out there. The only thing I had done was make myself some cuppa soup and even I don't class that as actual cooking. Not only had I not cooked anything, I had also not done any food shopping or taken the time to actually decide what I was going to have to eat. I have spent over five years living on my own so it isn't like I have never had to fend for myself before,  however I was rather worried that even the little skill I had forged in this time would have been lost in six months away. I hadn't had this issue the year before as I had lived in a chalet with my own kitchen and I often cooked for myself.  

I had hoped that spending so much time in the kitchen and around chefs would have meant I some how magically gain their skill, but, as my house mate delightfully told me you can't really just absorb knowledge that way. 

It isn't just the actual cooking that was the issue, its also the taking the time to decide what I am going to cook. I tend to walk around the kitchen opening cupboards and staring blankly into them before moving on to the next cupboard and ending up realising I have been staring into the freezer for a good five minutes and that my ice cream is starting to melt. At this point I usually just decide to have pasta. 

It wasn't like this in Meribel. After a few weeks you knew what food you would be eating at every meal on every day, the decision as to what to put into my own body had been totally taken away for a very long time. Breakfast and lunch were always the same, coco pops and any left over bacon and sausage for breakfast and a ham and cheese baguette for lunch. Always the same and I haven't been able to look at a baguette since. 

And then there was dinner;

Monday: Mystery curry - made from a range of leftover vegetables and bits of meat. Turkey, pork and chicken all went in the pot and they all look very similar. It really is quite disconcerting not knowing what you are eating. It was also very difficult to tell the vegetables apart and disappointing when you thought you have a nice big bit of potato, only to bite into it and find out it was actually parsnip. 

Tuesday: Now Tuesday was undoubtedly everyone's favourite day of the week because it was Chicken Pie day. It is difficult to explain just how excited everyone got about Chicken Pie Tuesday. It was without a doubt the highlight of everybody's week. It was made by AJ who pretended he greatly resented having to spend so much of his Tuesday making five massive chicken pies, but in fact loved all the attention he got from it. If a Tuesday had come around and there wasn't chicken pie there would have been actual mutiny. The children in the hotel had their dinner before the staff but throughout the children's dinner you could see staff edging closer and closer to the pie. There was a trick to getting the most out of the pie, the main one was not to fill your plate up with too much mashed potato, that was like an added extra. Usually two or three pies would be brought out and each one would be cut open and en mass the staff would decide which one looked the best, the one with the most juice and then they would all descend on the chosen pie. When that was consumed the next juiciest would be dished out and the least juicy would be reserved for seconds or for those unfortunate enough to be late. 

Wednesday: Wednesday, as I have already said was the chef's day off and as a result was the day were had to eat frozen pizza that resembled cardboard. 

Thursday: Turkey Stir fry. This was the worst day of the week. There is nothing more to say about the Turkey Stir Fry. 

Friday: Fish day. Home made fish goujons and potato wedges. If we were very lucky we were allowed tomato ketchup. 

Saturday: Cottage Pie 

Sunday: Spaghetti Bolognese and garlic bread. 

Unlike the food I reported on last year, this year we were fed well, the food was hearty and there was plenty of it. We were very lucky, there wasn't a potato ball in sight. 

All my worries have now been calmed as I look upon all the food I have created from scratch, a minestrone soup, bolognese sauce, and (because it is Tuesday tomorrow) a lovely looking Chicken Pie. 

Another Telling Off

'That vodka was for medicinal purposes only - You are a very naughty girl' said my mum down the phone about ten minutes ago.

The Girl Who Ran Away.

My last blog post ended on something of a cliffhanger...

I, tired of the people around me thinking there was nothing left for me in life other than knitting myself into the grave, had decided to get drunk, and, to use the phrase I myself used that evening, 'just go out and do something stupid'.

Of course to the majority of staff who worked in the hotel it was impossible to believe that I had ever been 18, had ever got up to any of the things they did, could ever have got as drunk, been as silly, stayed out all night, been as inappropriate, woken up in places that weren't my own bed etc etc when in fact I had, and indeed more so because I, unlike them, had also been 19, 20 and 21, and had been these ages at university, the best three years of my life.

So anyway. The only person who I thought I could  go out and get drunk with, who would not either run away and hide from the prospect of spending an evening outside of work with me, make me feel old or judge me at all was AJ.

There was one problem.

It was a Thursday (Thursday 10th January, in fact, as I have just now worked out) . Thursdays were not good days for the kitchen staff. Thursdays were the day after Wednesdays and Wednesdays were the kitchen's day off. Wednesdays for the chefs were all about waking up hungover from Tuesday night, having several beers, skiing and then having a lot more beers and ending the evening with a burger and passing out with all their clothes on (waking up with their ski boots still on was proof to them that they had had a really good day off). So Thursday was hangover day. Thursday was the day that they looked like death, worked really slowly, had to have a mid day nap and were really rude to everybody. Thursday was not a going out drinking day, Thursday was an 'if I even look at alcohol I will be sick' day. So when I initially broached the subject of going out after work with AJ I was met with a negative reaction. I however was on a mission and persevered, begged, pleaded and demanded until he (surprisingly quickly) agreed to come up when he had finished work and bring some orange juice and some very classy plastic cups so we could indulge in some of the duty free vodka that my mother had brought over when she had visited the previous week, before going out into town (therefore what happened next was actually my mum's fault).

GOOD PLAN I thought.

Promptly there was a knock on my door and export strength blue label Smirnoff Vodka was liberally poured into two glasses and we got talking. We then managed to miss the bus so poured another few vodkas to pass the time till the next one. It was only when we finally got on the bus that it dawned on me that I was actually very drunk. And this only dawned on me when I realised I had been talking absolute crap  bus to the unfortunate bar supervisor and her unsuspecting boyfriend who had also got on the bus to go home. What I was talking about for quite some while was how I was sick of being good all the time, how I wanted to do something crazy that no one would expect and shake things up a bit (last time I felt like that I got my nipple pierced). However I had not decided what this crazy thing was that I was going to do (thank God there are not piercing shops / tattoo parlours in Meribel)

When AJ and myself got off the bus it took me a few seconds to realised we were actually holding hands. I was quite shocked by this sudden and unexpected turn of events but actually found it quite pleasant.

Upon approaching the bar I decided that the first round was on me and as that I had probably had too much to drink I would order very sensible diet coke for me and a pint for AJ. After placing the order I realised that I did not feel very well so thrust the money into AJ's hand and walked quickly and purposefully towards the bathroom where I closed the door and was promptly sick in the toilet.

I composed myself for a few minutes and exited the bathroom to find AJ waiting patiently for me, taking the first few sips of his pint.
'Right I'm going home' I said
'Err what' he said in surprise.
I didn't answer I just put down the untouched diet coke he had handed me and headed to the door.

Now I am quite a determined drunk. When I decided it is time to go home I go home, there is no stopping me and I am perfectly happy to run away if it means I get to go to bed quicker. And when I get that drunk all I want to do is go to bed. In fact that night I was so determined that it was time for me to go to sleep that I strode away so fast that I was half way up the road before AJ had processed the information that I was leaving, decided that he should really follow me, taken one last mouthful of his beer, put it down mournfully and run on out after me.

My resolve to walk home was quickly replaced by the idea (encouraged by AJ) that we should probably get a taxi , and as it was still so early in the night there were plenty lined up ready to take us home. I can't say I remember a huge amount about that trip but I can remember jumping out of the taxi and running up the stairs to the hotel and into the lift without even looking back, wondering slightly if I was going to be followed before deciding that I should probably spend a few minutes sitting on the bathroom floor to see if I was going to be sick again. What seemed like quite a while later, but was actually only a couple of minutes AJ appeared in the doorway to my bathroom, looking quite worried to see me sat on the floor, when he hauled me up and put me to bed. The last thing I remember was pulling his arm around me before I passed out.

I was woken up some while later by the strangest sensation and it quickly dawned on me what it was, every two minutes or so the back of my neck was being kissed. Now I lay there for a good few minuets, not quite sure what I should do. The total and utter drunken cloud that had earlier descended on me was starting to lift and yet I could not figure out what my next move should be, I had had slight suspicions that a crush had been forming since the first week on the season when he had presented me with five slices of lemon tart on a plate, saying that he knew it was my favourite, but I hadn't really thought anything about it since. A few minutes later I just thought, 'why am I thinking so hard about this?? What the hell'. However I did decided that it would be best if we kept it secret and he agreed.

'So.. this is just between me and you right?' became my famous last words.

The Beginning of the Never Ending Story.

First an apology for the silence. Last year, three weeks after I arrived back in the country I was pretty much prolific with the writing, almost every day there was a post and this year there has been almost three weeks of nothingness. This has been partly because last year I moved into a mouse infested house with two of the unfriendliest people in the universe so I didn't have much to do in the great expanses of time that one who works 9-5.30 finds they have. This hasn't happened this year as I have moved into a lovely house, with two very friendly people and so I have found more things to occupy my time.

It has also been because this year I have not quite known where to start. Life was more complicated this season. A lot more complicated. And it has taken me a few weeks to simply get over the whole experience. I took a week off when I came home and that week mainly consisted of me sitting down in various places in my house and waking up several hours later with a member of my family laughing at my ability to sleep anywhere. My body simply shut down, able to rest properly for the first time all season, knowing that my work phone had been handed back and wouldn't ring, that no staff would knock at my door demanding my attention, that I wouldn't hear the sounds of the children in the nursery next to my bedroom screaming or voices of parents complaining. It was like the deepest silence imaginable had descended on me and it was complete and utter bliss.  

It was complicated because it was constant, it was complicated because of a series of unpleasantness,  it was complicated because there was a man who had the ability to really bloody piss me off at times and complicated because I liked him enough to let him really bloody piss me off. It was complicated because you're not really supposed to start something complicated with someone who is technically a member of your own staff.  

But first an introduction to some of the characters that will feature in this year's story. I had four main members of staff, all 18, all just as irritating as each other, all very different, both in their persons and the way they were irritating. And all wonderful and kind-hearted and hard working

Two girls, one blonde one dark, Two boys, one blonde one dark. An apprentice plumber and electrician, a future accountant (and possible world leader), a sex mad man hunter and the little boy in the big world who became the big boy in the little world and who is now, well on the way to conquering it.  Four eighteen year old, hormonal, over tired, excited, bewildered children rushing head long and dazed into adulthood. 

There was also the kitchen team, the Head Chef (thankfully not a drug dealer this year) A man who I platonically adored for his friendship, his loyalty and his food (I taught him the meaning of the word platonic sometime mid season so I hope he still remembers). He also had a wicked sense of humour which no one wanted to be at the receiving end of and he had the was the image of the chef through and though (don't be lulled into a false sense of security by how nice I have been about him, he could be wicked if he wanted).  Swearing and crude behaviour were as prevalent in our kitchen as they are in other kitchens. 

And two commis chefs, bi-polar opposites, AJ the unlikely object of my occasional affections and the other  one, one of the strangest individuals I have ever had the dubious pleasure of knowing well. A twenty year old masturbation addict, who believes that he lost his virginity the season before, but wasn't quite sure, but from what he could remember the girl in question was overweight and not really to his very accommodating tastes. I liked him, despite his complete social awkwardness, despite the fact he asked too many pervy questions and despite the fact I once caught him masturbating while I was talking to him.  But more about him later. 

What really took me by surprise at the start of the season was just how scared my four members of staff were of me. It was actually really funny as I think I am about as scary as Winnie the Pooh. I had decided that I should start the season being professionally distant and I wasn't aware of just how this would come across. It became painfully obvious that these people were terrified of me to the stage that when I walked into the room all of them would visibly stand up straight. It came to a rather unpleasant head to me one night when, a couple of weeks into the season, I decided to go out with everyone after work one day (I did not do this often) and one member of staff, drunkenly whispered to my lovely bar supervisor (who thankfully wasn't scared of me and was actually a great friend) 'I just don't feel that I can be myself because Cat is out'. The Bar Sup related this story to me in fits of giggles and I instantly felt about a hundred years old, completely guilty that my mere presence in a bar was ruining people's evenings and slightly curious because I had just seen the girl in question make out with some stranger and so, I wondered, if that's what she does when she feels like she has to be on best behaviour, what does she do when I'm not there????  

The only person who found people quaking at my very presence in the room as funny and unfounded as I did was AJ. He had worked briefly at my hotel last year and so had seen me in my first few months in 'management', when I was frankly, a bit shit. And having someone who did not think I was Cruella was a complete and utter relief and it was nice to have someone to talk to normally. 

We had known each other the year before, but as he had moved onto a different hotel in Meribel quite early on, he had not had a huge effect on my season and I had mainly encountered him when he was absolutely and completely wrecked. I have since talked about him to both the Rep and the Childcare Manager about him and they both said the same thing, 'He was always nice (pause) big drinker'. But at the start of the season he was a complete and utter breath of fresh air, and also as we knew a lot of the same people, he was someone to talk to and reminisce with. 

Now come mid January I was getting a little fed up of being view as the 'past it old lady' by my group of staff who had barely gone through puberty and saw being 25 as the same as being 125. And I started to have a few very dangerous thoughts about wanting to do something to shake things up and stop acting old. In truth I wanted a night off being the 'manager' and to just do something stupid.

I decided to get drunk 

but just how drunk I actually became was a surprise to more than just myself.

Avoiding A Telling Off

I have spent much of the last six months either telling people off or holding back from telling people off. However today the tables turned and was told off by two separate people.

The first was my hairdresser. He was horrified that I had not visited him in so long and greeted me with the delightful phrase 'Well we have to get rid of that fluff don't we?' and ended with 'Come back in SIX to EIGHT weeks, DO NOT leave it any longer this time'.

The second person to tell me off was a blast from the past, the fashion designer, one of my great friends of season number one for those of you new to the blog. I popped into where she worked today to say hello after my long trip away. After getting over the delight of seeing each other after all this time and after she had lulled me into a false sense of security she let rip;

'I cannot believe you have fallen in love with a chef again!'

'Well I liked him a lot but but I wouldn't say I was in love with him, I don't think I actually fell in love with any of them' I replied.

This was apparently a very unsatisfactory answer for the fashion designer. A look of hatred flashed through her eyes.

'If I'd have been there it would not have happened, I would not have let that happen'

'Well it probably would have...well there was this bottle of vodka ...and he was actually quite nice'

If the fashion designer had had a handbag with her she would have hit me with it at that point.

And that is where she started to get hysterical,
'I just hate chefs as a breed, I just hate them, and now you are going to marry him, you are going to get married to this chef'.

I uttered denials that I was not going to get married but she wasn't listening and instead told me that should I get married she would burst into the back of the church to stop all proceedings.

She really is very rude about chefs!

One day - so many airports.

A few weeks ago I thought the moment would never come, the moment where I landed down in Britain. And on Saturday I did it twice. I flew from Geneva to Heathrow and then from Heathrow to Manchester. 

All in all it was a long day, the morning spent wandering aimlessly from Chamonix, contemplating just how different it was from Meribel and trying, and failing to see any actual ski lifts. I did however see a French hippy woman wandering around with no shoes on. And I had a fabulous burger from a tiny little shack called the Annex. My staff accommodation was also called the Annex and was an absolutely disgusting place in which I point blank refused to spend any time what so ever, so the decision to eat food produced in a place with the same name was only made when my companions had raved about the place as they had visited it only hours before hand when they were drunk, and were now returning for sobered up seconds. 

At 3.15pm, myself and two other people finally got into a van and went to the airport. I brought with me four  of the best packed bags anyone has every seen, within them was a huge amount of clothes, ski boots, a double duvet, speakers, a bottle of vodka and a bottle of gin, two other pairs of shoes, a laptop, make up, toiletries and a variety of other things totally (not?) necessary for a life in the mountains. To help you understand just how impressive this packing was it wasn't 4 suitcases, it was 1 suitcase, 1 boot bag, 1 carry all and one hand luggage bag. Now that was impressive packing. It did however cost me £68 to put it all on the aeroplane. As we checked in I found myself trying to take the other two's passports and tickets in case they lost them, even though both of them were grown men. 

Now what the customs people don't tell you is that although they specify that you are only allowed one hand luggage bag on the plane, they do not specify how many coats and jumpers you are allowed to take through. I tested this yesterday by taking through two ski coats and a massive woolly jumper. For the first set of customs I put one coat inside the other and no one seemed to notice or to care and then didn't even bother for the second. 

So.. getting everyone's luggage onto the plane proved to be the easy bit of the journey. As we moved on to go through security I was stopped and pulled to one side to have my bag searched. Now, even though you know that there is nothing in your suitcase that shouldn't be there, there is always a moment of terror in case someone, somehow has managed to get into your suitcase and plant drugs/knives/ a bomb and a life spent in prison flashes before your eyes.

Anyway the security woman opens up my bag and sees that inside it are a huge amount of DVDs, 'Ah' she says in her Swiss accent, 'are you a  DJ?' I just smiled, and tried to look how I imagine a cool female DJ to look, as she took the top DVD, presuming it to be a CD from my imaginary lucrative DJ career and waved it at the man who spotted my bag as a potential terrorist threat and asked him if that was what he had seen in my bag. What she didn't notice and I did was that the DVD that she was waving round Geneva airport had two words written on it, and those two words were 'Lesbian Vampires'. To those who haven't heard of the very silly spoof film Lesbian Vampire Killers, a DVD entitled Lesbian Vampires could make them think I was into some very very dodgy porn film, and this in turn could have got me into a lot of trouble with customs. Luckily however she just put the DVD back and I went on my way. 

Although I would have loved to do a lot of shopping in the airport, I remembered that I am in fact poor and cannot afford to shop in the Gucci and Chanel shops that make up Geneva airport. So the boys decided that we should instead look for a bar. They were both incensed that there was not a Wetherspoons in said airport and were quickly disheartened that, as we walked round, the only place selling alcohol was the Champagne and Oyster bar. Now I would have loved to while away the hours at the Champagne and Oyster bar but unfortunately the boys were not of that same opinion, and we made two laps of the airport, with them both chuntering loudly about there displeasure with the whole situation before I spotted a little place with an actual beer tap. The two boys visibly relaxed and finally stopped moaning. 

An hour later we boarded the aeroplane to Heathrow and, like a child on his first aeroplane ride, one of the boys I was with, JL, made it absolutely clear that he wanted to sit by the window. I made it clear that if he was going to sit next to the window then he couldn't be getting up and going to the toilet every few minutes. He took this so much to heart that by the time we landed in Heathrow he was in so much pain that he ran at the speed of light to the bathroom in the airport.  

We were literally rushed through Heathrow and onto the next plane, without any time to buy the food we were so desperate for by then. 

The next flight went by in a blur, with JL deciding he didn't really want to sit by the window again. What we did find out though, that we had missed on the first flight, is that when the BA air hostesses come round with their trolley offering the free chicken tikka wrap and a drink, is that they only have the soft drinks on display and they actually have a whole range of things hidden away inside the trolley! All you have to do is ask! Wine it was. 

We got to Manchester and waited for our bags, first one came off, then all of mine. But there was nothing for JL. His bag it turned out was sat waiting for him in Heathrow. It also turned out that that bag contained every item of clothing he owned other than what he was wearing.  

It was a slightly smelly few days for him until his bag was delivered to his house.

Here We Go Again! Meribel 2012-13

Well here I am, not quite back in the city yet but I said goodbye to Meribel yesterday and now I am in Chamonix which is the biggest place I have been to in almost 6 months, its rather overwhelming really, it has a Japanese restaurant and everything. God knows how I am going to feel when I get back to London in a weeks time. Actually, who am I kidding, I am going to bloody love it .

So last year when I started this blog about life as a Seasonaire in Meribel I started right back at the beginning when I got off the plane in Geneva and went off for two weeks of management training. This time I am going to start at the end. Partly because at this time I haven't even started to recover from the season and, as a result, my mind is still soup due to lack of sleep and free time, so, I can only recall things that happened in the last few days. And partly as an introduction to some new readers to the staff I put on the coach back to England only a couple of days ago.

Well the day before yesterday I watched and waved as a double decker coach pulled away, a coach full of people I had spent every day of the last five months with. They differed in every way from the staff that my loyal readers have been reading about for the past year.  Differed in personality and temperament but at the same time, they were the same; they still all got drunk, they still had sex with anything that they could pin down for long enough, they still fell in and out of love faster that in takes to eat staff dinner, they still drove me mad, did ridiculously stupid things, turned up late, turned up hanging out of their arses.

And yet they were all new.

The girl whose love of life and of the opposite sex meant she, unwittingly, totally embodied the feminist idea that was first declared by Mary Wollstonecraft in her 1792 'Vindication of the Rights of Women'. This girl just thought she was enjoying having a lot of sex, I thought she was the perfect feminist creation.

The two boys who lived the seasonaire life as it should be lived and never let being thrown up upon by a variety of girls put them off.

The chef who, even though he was desperate to have sex for a second time in his life (he said he had had sex once, even though he couldn't quite remember it), did not quite manage it. In fact he didn't really manage to do anything with any females, other than the hug I gave him when he left. Despite his eternal optimism and enthusiasm.

The other chef, the one I quickly learned to care very deeply about, despite him being 2 days off being born in the 1990s, despite his love of setting things on fire, despite everything, he was, often, my rock, when times got hard and I just needed someone to talk to, he was there, and I will care about him for the rest of my life. It might not have been love, but it was a very deep rooted friendship. That is how I saw it anyway. This same  chef was in Meribel the year before and had spent the summer reading this blog and has spent the winter slightly dreading what I would write about him. Well my dearest darling - keep  on wondering and waiting.

And so it has come to an end. And it is raining in Chamonix. As we left Meribel last night the sun was shinning, the rivers were running with the melting snow and we had the first MacDonald's any of us had had in months.

And now is the time to write it all down, the engagements, the fights, the drunken behaviour, why I turned away from the Ram Raid and the time I was propositioned by five men in the same evening.  

The End is nigh

So

That is it

The last guest food to go out of our kitchen has just gone.

It was a white chocolate and raspberry cheesecake.

I have never been brought to tears by a cheesecake before. I didn't think I would be this sad to see the end, to be honest I started counting down the end of the season sometime at the beginning of February. But tonight is a sad night, and a happy night all at the same time.

But there it is, I a sad, and I watched my boys working today for the last time and I realised how much I will miss all my staff. I'm sure they wont miss me, how many people have ever said 'Oooh I really miss my old boss?' Very few I expect. But I will miss them, and I will worry about them even though they don't need worrying about and I will care about them all for a long time to come.

Bloody soppy I am tonight eh! I started work at 7.30 this morning and it 21.50 now so maybe I have been at work so long that I am going mad. Maybe I worked so long because I wanted to soak up the last few hours of being here. I don't know why I wanted to soak it all up today, I haven't had the slightest desire to do that at all for the last 5 months.

Oh well, I better go to bed before I start crying in front of the staff. Won't want to ruin my image now would I?

I'm going to compile a play list of sad 'saying good bye songs'

Goodbye - The Spice Girls
Time to Say Goodbye - Andrea Bocelli
The Power of Goodbye - Madonna
Every time We Say Goodbye - Peggy Mann


You get the picture

Are my eyes deceiving me, is there finally a new Seasonaire in the City post???

Yes, yes there is. And I'm not even back in the UK yet but I will be back in 11 days (thats 264 hours or 15840 minutes).

So I took some time off writing. This wasn't actually an active decision for the first couple of months, but it was a choice between spending my free time away from the hotel that has been my home for this long, cold, snowy winter or spending my free time in my office, in front of a computer being asked questions about keys/ hot tubs/ rotas/ menus or weird medical conditions staff and guests felt they could potentially have developed. To be honest in my spare time I mainly balanced my laptop on the sink, put on a film and had a bath. Hard core I am (and very clean)!

So I thought I would write this quick post to remind you all that I will be home soon. Home and ready to write all about my last six months. It was completely different from last season (apart from my naked chef stories, there was one of those this season too, but when isn't there??)

('Just one naked chef?' I hear you cry -

Well the season isn't over yet)


So to come - stories of the 20 year old virgin chef, fire misadventures, finding a love of skiing, a romance, a fight, being the boss, someone with a phobia of peas and how I learnt the meaning of the phrase 'Finger blasting'

11 days to go!

In meribar at the first Ram Raid gig of the season

Various Up dating and the Meribar opening party

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway it was a great night. Everyone should go.

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

Back in Meribel and the end of two long weeks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Various mid training thoughts and the slight problem of men

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

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

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

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

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

The fashion designer's view of chefs.

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

Russia. There is plenty of space in Russia.

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

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

Deja Vu

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

Packing and the perils of luggage allowance.

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

No that is not it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Long Last Weekend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sad sad day

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

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

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

Hell is a spinning class!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Making some kind of effort towards getting fit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoying raclette at the ski show!

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

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

Ready to Apres

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Changes

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

Now I am going back.

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

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

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

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

List Making Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Line up Line up - its multivitamin time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My first ever visit to a spa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She came with me

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

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

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

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

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

Ok yet another new video from the Ram Raid.

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

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

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


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

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

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

Just to be fair- The Dominos

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

Go see them.

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

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

New Ram Raid video

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

Get excited

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

The week the geography teacher came to stay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fireman calendar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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