On Saturday night I got invited to a dinner party. The closest thing I have got to a dinner party in six months is when the rep made cheese fondue in our house with the fondue kit you could hire for free from the Sherpa. The only people there were myself, the rep and the childcare manager. And we just ate loads of cheese and then had to go to bed because we were so full of cheese and just needed to lie down.
As I sat round eating the fabulous Jamie Oliver inspired creation that had been served up I realised that I was on the way to achieving everything I have always wanted. I work in the heritage industry - where I have wanted to work since I was 4 years old, I live in London, a city I have loved since I was 8. I was at a dinner party, surrounded by beautiful, intelligent, sophisticated women, women who are Media Moguls and Marketing Queens. We were drinking wine out of wine glasses rather than mugs, eating hummus rather than potato balls and having an intelligent conversation rather than talking about other uses for the dinning table fork.
And for a second I had a complete sense of displacement, where did I want to be, I loved what I was doing, I loved being there and yet I wanted to be back in Meribel.
It got me to thinking, what had made me think this? Does being a seasonaire change you forever? Does it get into your blood and stay there for the rest of your life?
In the last few weeks of the season I had been completely and utterly offended and apoplectic with rage when someone implied that he was worried that because we had been getting close, I would read too much into it, when we were leaving soon (out of this read 'he was worried I would fall in love with him and cause a scene').
'How dare he', I raved one day to the fashion designer and the rep, 'I don't want to fucking marry the bloke, I just wanted to enjoy the last few weeks of the season. In a week I'm going off to start the job of my dreams and become a fucking normal person again. I'm a fucking feminist for fuck sake, I'v managed for a fucking long time without men and without letting them fucking things up for me' (I was rather angry hence the such frequent use of the word fuck').
That was when the fashion designer pulled out her favourite line in the defence of my honour. He had said something silly and she said 'get over yourself you fat twat'. He was shocked at this comment which had seemingly come out of nowhere, but I knew that she was really saying it in reference to me and had wanted to say in for a while and I loved her for it.
But that's how I felt, I was going to start the job of my dreams, in the place of my dreams. And I was and I have and I love it.
But I just can't get Meribel off my mind. Its in my blood. I already have itchy feet. I would like to blame it the rain that has fallen constantly since I got off the ferry in Dover but I don't think that's it.
My way of thinking has been so radically altered in the last 6 months, altered permanently and for the better. I have seen things and done things which were once so far away from the person I was. I think the above man is fundamental proof of this. And maybe I will never do any of those things again. Maybe I am back in England for good, on the road to a career and a house and a car and a pet fish (don't anyone dare insert the words 'husband' or 'babies' in here, I am a feminist after all). And that would be great but on the bad days and on the good, my season will remain with me forever. Forever the best thing I ever did.
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