Tales of catastophe, sex and squalor from the Alpine Underbelly...

Belle de Neige

Sunday, 20 December 2009

And it seemed to me then As of chances the chance furthermost I should see her again...

Celebs spotted: A Halliwell of the Geri variety. Actually she's staying in the chalet opposite ours which belongs to the Beckwiths. And James Martin, that chunky chap off Saturday Kitchen. Wearing a peak cap and looking shifty at the airport. Lewis Hamilton jogging.

Hot ski instructors spotted: 2 (richer pickings down in the mountain I'm told.)

Hot Holiday Hunks: Angus. Again. So cute. Banter was flowing on Thursday propping up the bar:
A: ' Barman! She wants some ice in her drink'
Me: 'Do you mind not defiling my whisky? I like it straight up'
A: 'It'll make it last longer, which means you'll keep sitting here and talking to me'
Me: 'Smooth. More ice please barman.'

After a quiet ciggy he proceeded to quote a Thomas Hardy poem at me. According to Angus Thomas Hardy is to Dorset what Dickens is to London. This sort of cheese is guaranteed to get me every time. Went home. Scribbled my number down and ran back to the bar to give it to him, along with a kiss on the cheek. He looked quite chuffed but if I ever see him again I'll eat my ear muffs.

I think I've just experienced what it truly means to be a seasonaire. Having stayed up until 3am waxing a tile floor on Friday night I spent yesterday driving through snow and ice to drop off the teenage son of a multisquillionaire banker at the airport before collecting aforementioned squillionaire himself and driving him back to the resort. Nerve wracking. I mean, who in their right mind would put me in charge of a 40 grand car and its considerably more valuable contents? The roads were hideous - it took nine hours. By the time I arrived back I was about ready to pack my bags and leave...except the bar opposite my house was full of equally exhausted seasonaires... getting wombasted on jager.

Despite the late hour, I didn't go home. I drank beer. And a friend behind the bar conjured a little bowl of cheese, salami and crisps out of nowhere while everyone else poured sympathy on me and told me I could have a lie in tomorrow. As F-the-Chef said to me on Thursday night, after slaving in a hot kitchen all day over confit duck only to find the broken oven had fucked the whole thing over - 'It's all worth it. You'll see.'

I should be on the slopes right now, since I have the afternoon off before the arrival of more guests in the chalet, but I have been cut down in my prime by a revolting lurgy plus I appear to be teething, which is most uncalled for. So I have made this bar my new office. And lest I forget, I shall now remind myself, I am not on the tube...

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