The Moment I Knew it was Time to go Home

'When deciding whether a man is stylish enough for us to want to get into his pants, we don't want to be able to actually see them, thanks' - Cosmopolitan magazine August 2012

By the end of the season I was tired. Tired of no sleep, tired of ham baguettes, tired of telling every boy who worked at the hotel to pull their fucking trousers up every moment of every day. I don't want to see your pants, the guests don't want to see your pants (the writers of cosmopolitan magazine don't want to see your pants).

I must confess that on more that one visit to watch the dominos, purely out of habit, I have had to stop myself telling them to pull their trousers up.

In those last few weeks I was tired, exhausted. The rep was exhausted, the fashion designer was too. The childcare manager had left for an amazing job he had been headhunted for, but he had been exhausted at the end too. All the staff were tired and everyone was excited about going home, seeing the people they really missed, having their mum cook then dinner. With still several weeks to go most people had emailed their mums with precise instructions for their first few meals at home (mine was Chinese takeaway on the Saturday night, black pudding Sunday morning, beef roast dinner with Yorkshire pudding on Sunday night).

But the moment I knew I had to go home came at the end of the last week. We had all gone out as a group to watch Bring Your Sisters at the last après of the season. Every one was tired of cleaning. Everyone knew it was the last one. That morning there had been a bit of a 'to-do' about face painting. Some people thought face painting might be a bit of a break of cleaning, others thought that face painting just prolonged the amount of time we had to clean.

However before the argument had commenced I had been told to sit in a chair and have my face painted. I had sat in the chair and as a consequence had some kind of pink glittery bear thing painted on my face. It was about this time when the argument started and suddenly there was huge division in the hotel. It was mainly as a result of people being over tired and taking out their frustrations that some people had been working much harder than others all week.

Anyway I was a bit caught in the middle, totally agreeing with the argument but looking like a bloody care bear. The afternoon dragged on and two thirds of the hotel became tigers, snakes, clowns, skeletons and butterflies.

This image was furthered greatly by the fact several people (including me) decided we should go out to après wearing our onecies. While making the 'what onecie shall I buy' decision I had thought that if I was going to get one, I should go all out and get the worst one going. So mine was (and is, because I do still sometimes wear it) half bright pink and half purple, split straight down the middle.

So just to recap I went out to the last après of the season with a face painted like a pink sparkly bear wearing a half pink, half purple onecie.

We hadn't left the hotel long before I realised my mistake. I did not feel one hundred percent comfortable with my attire.

So we watched Bring Your Sisters, who were amazing, the creme de la creme of après entertainment and during it almost everyone except me got completely off their tits. I'm not sure why I didn't. I wasn't really feeling it and I couldn't be bothered queuing up. And quite quickly everyone started to act like complete dicks. It was the first time in my life I have ever told anyone that 'they disgust me in every way' before. I hope it will be the last. I don't think they will ever remember me saying it to them. Someone vomited into their own hands and then carried on drinking (and they weren't even the person who was so totally repellant that I couldn't contain my disgust). I even caught someone trying to drink toffee vodka though their eyeballs (after which they went 'cat, cat, I can't see' and I could do nothing but call them a fucking retard and walk away)

Soon I had to leave and myself, the fashion designer and the rep want to get food. I was the only one of the three of us dressed so ridiculously and I text Hutch, 'help me hutch, I'm having a burger, and I'm dressed like a fucking care bear in a fucking onecie'. She replied simply 'Catherine, I think is time for you to come home, come back to London, be around normal people again'.