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

Belle de Neige

Friday, 15 January 2010

Say hello and wave goodbye

And so I've come home. In a grim daze. The ski resort has become my world and being ripped from it feels like being ripped from the womb. As I walked across the tarmac to the plane, I realised that little bubble of rock and snow is a hiding place for me. A snowy white duvet under which to crawl, with my knot of new friends and ignore what's happened. But it seems the unrelenting snow and ice has followed me here. It's like coming back through the wardrobe from Narnia, only to find it's bleak, eternal winter at home as well. In the ski resort though, the winter sparkles and fizzes. It's gilded with adrenaline and money and furs and Russians. Something different happens every day. Here it just sits on you like a cold, wet towel. And there's no Shazzer to chat beside the fire with this time, and make sense of it all. Well if there was I wouldn't be here.

We buried the beautiful Shazzer today. In a wicker coffin all decorated with ivy and wild flowers, in a snowy field (an ecological burial site) overlooked by her beloved South Downs, Jack and Jill windmills, the Sussex countryside she adored.

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