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

Belle de Neige

Sunday, 10 January 2010

Bad times, isn't it? When you're sitting on a bin eating out of a baking tray...

...so said H in the kitchen the other day as she was doing just that, and right at this second, I tend to agree...

Well, my pretties. Sorry for the radio silence. Belle has been out of action since the proverbial shit hit the fan of 2009. I write to you now from the wrong side of 26. A year older, I consider my wisdom to be diminishing somehow.

I was expecting a sting in the tail of that mountain of shite year, but the death of my best friend, the aforementioned wonderful Shazzer, has been more unexpected and painful a sting than I could have imagined in my wildest dreams. If only I hadn't let her down so badly. So many chances I missed.

She died between boxing day and new year, and somehow since then it hasn't seemed appropriate to write. I could have told you about how I've been desperately trying to distract myself from focussing on all intoxicating grief via an extremely skinny, wildly inappropriate and wrong-for-me Skater-Boy type. I've been loitering around with him a bit and am perplexed at breaking my own rule of never shagging anyone whose arse is smaller than mine. In fact, let's be honest, he has no arse whatsoever.

The man is a fine skier. In fact I think possibly sexier on skiis than off. He spends most of his time looking for large precipices to fling himself from, usually stoned off his tits. As I said, all wrong for me. I am exceedingly earth bound.

His inappropriateness for me (and fondness for canoodling with irritating blonde 19 year olds on my birthday) has been increasingly apparent, thus I have been trying to wean off him. Unfortunately our chalet chef wears the same aftershave as he does. Every time he wafts past I get a judder. It's both tittilating and irritating.

Since she died, I also could have raved about the fantastic powder, my new free-rider Saloman ski boots, the wonderful birthday I had, which included a tobogganing challenge and a whole pub full of seasonaires singing me happy birthday, twice.

I could have made you laugh with an anecdote about the, frankly, gold plated cunt who's been staying in our chalet avec (charmant) famille. Specifically the giant turd he managed to get wedged in his toilet brush (like a little nugget of gold just waiting for me to find it after breakfast one morning when cleaning the bathroom), and the resulting punishment I administered, by cleaning the toilet with his toothbrush (Shazzer would just burst with pride!).

But somehow it all seemed so heartless. So bland. Knowing Shazzer wouldn't be around to laugh at any of it with her dirty Babs Windsor laugh, or shriek down the phone at me to DUMP THAT ROTTER THIS INSTANT. Or reassure me it's perfectly reasonable to clean a toilet with a toothbrush, if the person's really a cunt. She saved me this year. It's a shame I couldn't save her back. Something dark has taken her away, somewhere I can't follow.

I'm heading home to bury her next week and I'm sure will raise a glass to her fabulousness with the best of you. She really was one in a million you know. And she's the reason I'm up this mountain in the first place.

Love you you silly old tart.


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