Lets start at the very beginning...

Lets get one thing out of the way right from the start. I am not a great skier, I wasn't that interested in skiing back in October and I can still, even after living in a ski village,  find lots of things I would much rather do than throw myself down the side of a mountain. Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy a couple of hours slowly meandering down a nice green run (very occasionally a gentle blue) looking at the scenery. This is why I point blank refuse to ski with other seasonaires. They go fast, ski on slopes you do not want to go on and then wait at the bottom of the run tutting while watching you carefully and slowly working your way all the way across the slope. I on these occasions was often trying not to shout 'I'm going to die', while they helpfully shout 'just point your skis down the fucking mountain'. Then just as you reach them and you're looking forward to a nice 5 minute rest,  they shoot off again leaving you to relive the whole horrific experience again. 

I learnt very quickly that skiing in a group was not for me. It was often commented on that I never went skiing. I did, I went quite often, its just that I went on my own. 

So why would a 24 year old get up one day in early October and decide to go do a season? Honestly...my mother made me. Well she strongly suggested it would be a good idea. I had graduated uni (twice, there are the letters B.A (hons) MA after my name!) and was convinced I would fall into the job of my dreams. I wanted to spend my days writing about History (there I said it, I am shamelessly going to admit to being a historian). And in reality I found myself back living with my mum and working as a Bra Fitter. Not the job of my dreams. A job I hated, downright hated. 

A few weeks earlier I had logged onto Facebook and found that Rosie had died. A girl I had worked with in another terrible job I once had in a call centre. She was younger than me. She went on holiday and a blood clot had formed in her leg, dislodged, reached her heart and she died. She had all these plans for life and she never got a chance to do them. She worked in a call centre and made these amazing plans and then she died. I knew that I had to do something, while I could. For me and also, just a little bit for Rosie. But what?

A couple of weeks later my mum, a complete and utter skiing addict,  said something along the lines of 'your unhappy all the time, go and clean toilets in the Alps and have the best winter of your life'. 

NO was my instant reaction. If I'm in the Alps I wont be able to look for new jobs, what if the job of my dreams comes up and I miss it?'

'GO' replied my rather forceful mother 'stop hanging round my house looking miserable'.

The longer I thought about it, the better it sounded. New start, new job, new people. Potential to have lots of sex with attractive men (that one didn't really pan out in the long term), maybe I would discover a love of skiing (neither did that one).

Anyway so I applied for a job cleaning toilets and they asked me to be a hotel assistant manager. I handed my notice in that day and three weeks later I was on a plane.