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

Belle de Neige

Wednesday, 31 March 2010

Mother nature shits on me again...

Mother Nature, you bitch. We need to have words.

You may find this little escapade fucking hilarious but I'm telling you right now, I don't. You can kiss my arse and fuck off while you're doing it.

I suppose it was only to be expected. Only a matter of time before spending so many hours in aforementioned grotty shit pit crack den type apartment affected my health. But don't you think combining the swift and grim onset of tonsillitis (shivers, sweats, nausea, 24hours of being unable to leave the bed) with my fucked up knee was enough, without you inflicting my motherfucking period on me 2 weeks earlier than usual?

Yoooou bitch. What's the fucking point of you?

I mean, I'm doing my best here under already difficult circumstances. There's only so much you can do in a ski resort without actually skiing. The remaining options are limited. I have pretty much whittled it down to drinking, eating and sex. Now you have taken away drinking, because I'm on antibiotics and feel as if there is a golf ball or 4 stuck down my gullet. I sound like Mr Bean.

...and you have taken away eating as I can't swallow and have lost my appetite anyway.

...and - this is the real beauty - am surfing the crimson wave in a big way so I can't even amuse myself with a good reaming. SbH is none too impressed with your antics either. He even went to the lengths of making me vegetable soup yesterday when I was, as he put it, 'blobbing' in bed like a miserable, sweaty moose in the hope I'd stop whinging and we could have a shag. But no. Oh no. No amount of vegetable broth can compete with the dreaded curse.

You try being on the blob without having packed any of your usual arsenal of protection in a boy's house ....with no toilet roll! I could cry.

The crack den now has 5 people living in it. This is a 4 metre square room. With far too much furniture in it anyway and now a larger than life, slightly unhinged, long-straggly haired, bright yellow onesie wearing, Judas of a northern bloke, E who is staying there gratis in exchange for occasional cleaning. In addition there is Skater Boy and whoever he chances to bring home on a particular evening. E keeps us entertained and distracted from morning hangovers with amusing stories about the numerous scrapes he has managed to get himself into. Like going to bed in a complete stranger's flat without realising. Or just not going to bed at all and rolling himself up in the doormat outside a complete stranger's flat. Or the time he fell asleep with a half rolled joint in his hand and left a pot of water boiling on the stove, the handle of which melted and formed a seal around the base causing pressure to build up and his flat mate to come down in the morning and find the whole thing glowing red hot and vibrating like a nuclear explosive on the stove.

'How are you still alive?' SbH asked him this morning. 'You should come with a health warning'.

He also does some amusing dances, wears an Austrian felt alpine hat with a feather and has been heard to threaten to kick a lady's tits off when he gets in a mood. A charming chap by all accounts.

Not only this, but it seems to have got round the whole resort, thanks to E that I have brought with me on holiday a massive glass dildo inlayed with blue swirls.

Since so many people now seem to know about this and have been asking, I thought I would take this opportunity to confirm that yes, it does exist, and yes it's made of glass. And yes we have used it. And no, I won't be sticking it up SbH's arse any time soon. Unless he has a very very significant change of heart about the idea.

A demain.

Thursday, 25 March 2010

Happier than a pig in shit

The thing is, I`m in love. With this little world up here in the mountains. It`s good to come back. And four weeks on not very much has changed, apart from the snow, which is drifting into insignificance at a rate of knots. This is fine from my perspective as it means more drinking time with my friends and sunbathing on the balcony and outside piste side restaurants. However, shit snow takes the shine off things rather for the overworked and underpaid seasonaire. The cracks are starting to show. More and more corners are being cut in the chalets. Patience with the punters is wearing thin.

'I fucking hate dealing with children,` mused the one we call Old Man Switzerland yesterday evening, after a shift in his ski hire shop which ran from 6.30am until 6.30pm. `If I quit my job there`s two things I can sell to keep me here. My watch and my car.` He eyed the sparkling Breitling on his wrist wistfully (he used to be a city boy) `I`d rather sell the car, but I can`t drive home in a watch.`

So, question:

How much squaller is a lady willing to put up with for ten days of awesome sex?

This is not a question I ever expected to have to muse over, but I write to you this morning from under a sheetless duvet on a sofa bed.

The undersheet is covered in unidentified stains and I don`t think in all fairness it has ever been changed since the opening of the season. The bed is not actually SbH`s. It`s his room-mate`s (don`t panic I`m not THAT much of a slag... he`s kindly lending it to us so crippled Belle doesn`t have to climb the ladder onto the SbH`s `shelf` bed). This leaves the question `how many other people have had sex on this bed under these sheets?` open to wide, terrifying speculation. The mattress and sheet are crispy with 4 months of pizza crumbs and the ash from a thousand rollies and joints. Like lying on gravel. The pillow ....to be honest I can`t even describe the pillow. Let`s just say it has no pillow case and is sort of greyish and smells of Tabasco. I am actually scared of getting up to go to the filth-encrusted bathroom in the morning as I don`t know what unidentified, putrid goip is going to squidge up between my toes on the way. The apartment of SbH and dearly beloved Skater Boy (oh yes, the very same) smells unique. I have never quite been able to identify what the aroma is. I think it`s eau de unwashed ski bum. Or it might just be fusty boy. Whatever. This place is festering.

The gradually expanding bacteria cultures thriving on the pots and pans in the kitchen and I are not the only house guests, either. There's also E, snoring good naturedly on a manky mattress in the corner as we speak. Living with boys is gross. Thankfully the Wiley Miss G lives next door and her apartment is very girly and has a nice clean bathroom which she has kindly let me use. It has lotions and potions and an actual shower, rather than the bucket, hose and shovel set up we have in here.

Really one ought not to complain though. It`s very nice of them to put me up. And even nicer to get a regular filling. I must be mad but I tidied the place a bit yesterday. Losing battle. Sometimes ovaries make you do the darndest things.

A demain.

Friday, 19 March 2010

When skeletons fall out of the closet

Huh. Interesting afternoon. In a purely random and unrelated to this blog sense...

...sometimes life creeps up behind you, taps you on the shoulder and shows your brain a split second playback clip of something dodgy you've done and then forgotten about or filed neatly in the back of your mind under a section market 'Woops. Moving swiftly on'...

2 things.

Firstly, a ce moment, to fill in the gaps in my negligible income between adventures I am doing a little bit of work on the side for some very lovely friends who run absolutely gorgeous furniture company from their equally gorgeous home. They sell the kind of furniture you'd expect to find in Mary Antoinette's boudoir. Just being in their house is a treat. And is the office an office or more the kind of place you'd expect to find Carrie Bradshaw tapping away on her laptop....? Well, yes. It has funky wallpaper, a chandelier, a diamond encrusted stapler and Bon Maman biscuits, darrrrrling.

Aaanyhoodle. I've been writing product descriptions for their website. Which is a nice way to pass the time and involves use of lots of pleasant descriptive words such as 'lovely', 'delightful', 'beautiful' and 'dainty'. Par example:

'This grand gold gilt ****** with its rattan detail and intricate carvings reminds us of the plush, oriental opulence of the 19th Century. The three oval mirrors can be moved to the perfect angle to make your morning hair styling a cinch.'

For some reason while I was musing away this afternoon trying to come up with new and delicious ways of describing antique furniture I was suddenly reminded of another type of product description I used to write when I was at university. Now, back in the day Sis-in-Law used to work for a.... ahem....sex toys retailer. For a bit of pocket money, yours truly used to write product descriptions.

Once a month, much to the curiosity of my male housemates, a large box would arrive at the door of my student digs, choc full of samples, which I would then test out and describe. Par example:

'The Analiscious butt plug is a delightfully flesh coloured, tapered 11.5cm plug that has a replaceable multispeed vibrator with easy slide control. Slip the Analiscious butt plug firmly into your anus, control the vibrations for an incredible totally anal filled vibration stimulated erotic sensation. The Analiscious Butt Plug comes complete with a delightful sachet of wet lubricant. For that total “anal-iscious” feeling only the Analiscious Butt Plug will do!'

Hum. At least you can call me versatile and say I've had a long and varied writing career. And I find with amusement that the word 'delightful' can be applied both to antique gilt furniture and butt plugs. Which is great.

So...what was the other thing? Well. A few months back I may or may not have had a (ultimately unsuccesful due to K-related performance problems) one-night stand with a friend of a friend of a friend on his friends bed at my friend's birthday party. Poor lad was only a young'n (20 I discovered afterwards - yikes). It was slightly abortive. The poor chap was completely mortified. In the end I gave up, made my excuses and went home leaving him chewing the duvet. And haven't seen him since. Until today when I went for physio at the gym where he works. When I saw him I was gripped with horror. When he saw me his face went purple.

Woops. Moving swiftly on...

Wednesday, 17 March 2010

Human Tumbleweed

Here's a turn up for the books. According to Big Brother 2.0 I need to be planning my whole life around getting sprogged up. BB2.0's analysis of my current (seeming) directionless-ness in life is that I need a 'strategy' and an 'exit plan', so that when I 'come to want children I'm in a financially secure position to do it.'

Right. Surely, if everyone planned their twenties around the possibility of wanting children in their thirties (and some people do it very successfully I'm not denying), if no-one was irresponsible then there'd be no explorers, no comedians, no Pulitzer-prize-winning writers.... no anyone interesting, actually. If everyone planned their lives around their children, there'd be no Katie Price for god's sake! What a hellish notion. Everyone would just sit around (like my dear brother) talking about their sprogs. Which is delightful at first but soon becomes mind-numbingly objectionable.

At 26 I accept that I really should be popping out the other side of unemployed, farting around enjoying myself irresponsibility but, for whatever reason, I did the settle down, commute 4 hours a day, buy a house and get engaged bit in the first half of my twenties. So here I am, pissing away the second half on (gasp out loud everyone) fun. I've just had a little bit and I intend to have a lot more.

Besides if the antics of recently-impregnated Sis-in-Law and Big Brother 2.1 are anything to go by I think I'll push my sprog plans back another 15 years. Sis-in-Law nearly knocked BB2.1 over in the street with his own BMW last week. She (allegedly accidentally) actually drove the car into the back of his knees, causing him to stumble forward and almost hit the deck. At very low speed, you understand, but still.

'Don't worry!' shouted BB2.1 to an astounded passer-by, 'It's my wife!'.

'Yeah mate', the chap replied, 'if I was you I'd rip up my life insurance'.

True story.

Is this what it's come to? If attempted murder is what I can expect from marriage and kiddiwinkles I'd like my subscription refunded please.

Me, myself? I've decided to move into a secondary phase of teenaged petulance, since I was actually a delightful, studious teenager who rarely slammed doors. Nowadays, on being asked to explain 'what I'm going to do next with my life' I am going to respond a la Kevin:

'Oh, for God's SAKE! Can we not? Can we just not???!' and then I'll flounce out of the room swinging my arms. And slam the door.

Because the thing is you see, I just don't care any more. I don't care that if I don't pack the pennies away now I might end up a shriveled, lonely prune hunched over a radiator in a council flat in 50 years. If that happens I'll just spend my pension (or grandchildren's pocket money, depending on which is more forthcoming) on smack and wiggle up the process whilst having a rip roaring good time.

Human tumbleweed that's what I'm aspiring to be, for right or wrong. See where the wind blows us. Don't worry too much about what's coming up and, more importantly, let go of things.

I, like everyone, find it terribly hard to let go of things that have meant something too me. Which is why I cried all the way back from the Ski Resort last month. Of course there was the grief. That's a whole other book. But my problem is I can't let go even if something's ceased to be a positive thing in my life. Being there with a screwed up knee was killing me. But I didn't want to leave. You cling on to the idea of things - of people.

When I was nine my Dad built me a little (well, it was quite big for a 9-year old, actually) wooden house. It had two floors – a staircase lead to a trap door into a little room with a bed and a balcony on top. It had a sink, running water and electricity. It took months to build. My Nan made me little curtains for it and a bedspread. I think I played in it for a couple of years, until I got too tall to stand up inside and discovered make-up, fashion, boys and wanking. It went to rack and ruin. And I always felt this dreadful pang of guilt every time I looked at it. And I kind of still do.

But the truth is I shouldn't feel guilty. What's relevant to a 9-year-old, to a 15-year-old to a 26-year-old? I needn't even say these are all a gulf apart.

I guess what I'm saying is, it's ok to leave something behind. To put things on life's rubbish heap. Even if you love it so deeply you think you can't live without it, after a while it just holds you back. My dear friend Laura, my long departed mother and cousins, my ex fiancee, my ex cat, my ex house. It's fine. It happened. And it's all proof that if you play by the rules life still bites you up the arse.

So, tumbleweed it's to be.

Tuesday, 16 March 2010

Swimming pool trauma

So, I'm going to have a wee 'jauntette' back to the Ski Resort in, oooooh, let's see...six days! Not that I'm counting or anything...I can't ski of course. I can barely walk. But there are other things young Belle can find to amuse herself darlings. Sex, booze and sunsnowbathing here I come!

There's also a little event called 'The Three Valley Rally' which does exactly what it says on the tin. Seasonaires must complete the course spread out over the 3-valley ski area in one afternoon, stopping at checkpoints to complete various comedy tasks and drink vast quantities of shots. I am hoping I've wangled a place on a check point, now I'm semi mobile, where I can get aggressively drunk, and torture people who can ski. Pray for good weather. I bloody deserve it.

In the interim SbH has been keeping me very amused with witty internet chat banter. The conversations turn to graphic 'wait til I get you home' style filth with alarming regularity. Well one has to feed one's horny beast with some kind of amusement during a dry spell.

Best of all I am now sans bionic, Crash-esque, heavy duty hinged leg brace on the advice of my surgeon (who I suspect used to be quite a hunk about 20 years ago). Although when I walk I lollop most inelegantly, darling. It looks like I have one leg shorter than the other. Which I basically do since the gammy one won't lock out. I haven't quite got the hang of a nice high heel back but I'm working on it. I can even swim a bit.

Now then. The swimming baths are, er.... an experience.

'We do a special rate for people like you' moaned the greyish hag with dead eyes behind the leisure centre reception desk yesterday morning, eyeing my funny shaped knee cap.

'People like me?' I asked 'How do you mean?'

'People with injuries,' she continued, and led me over to a place they laughingly call The Health Suite. This basically consisted of five fat ugly blokes broiling in a disgusting looking jacuzzi and a plunge pool full of ancient crusts floundering around in hideous neon one-piece bathing suits.

'Do you know what' I told her, smiling politely...'I don't think I will'. I don't care how much muscle wastage I need to counteract I don't fancy being letched over by some obese, aging freak while trying to restore my leg to full action. I wouldn't be able to run away, for one thing.

Later that morning I told SbH of my concerns:

Said he: 'I'd be more worried about swimming behind them, I doubt their bladder control is all that hot at that age'

Said I 'Won't the water turn purple? Or is that an urban myth?'

Said he: 'Myth. I tried it out. Myth busted'

I'm glad I can rely on the boy for these things. It only adds to his charm.

...and in closing, a quote from my Dad, in a rare appearance at the gym (dropping me off) and on seeing a room full of 6 year old kids learning karate:

'Look at all those little wankers'

Sunday, 14 March 2010

La belleza de playa?

With bugger all else to do but sit 'humping' (as my Dad says) the computer all day planning my next big cluster-fuck, I have been partying like it's going out of fashion these last few weeks. I think this is a very excellent idea and will no doubt give me the vitamins I need to get my knee on the fast track to recovery.

Combine my lack of anything to get up for on a Monday morning with my brother's 'must-cram-as-much-debauchery-into-the-next-9-months-before-sprog-arrives' mission and you have a very worrying combination.

I found myself still awake at 7am on Saturday morning after an impromptu paint-the-town-red sesh which involved a random inside beach party in some den of iniquity I don't care to mention, several Caipirinhas, and large quantities of an un-named substance which made me stay awake a lot. Dancing with a crutch is interesting. Particularly as drunken revelers tend to think it's a hilarious idea to try and steal it. Not realising that it doubles as a weapon. As Big Bro 2.1 and I were stumbling up the road to the taxi rank some obnoxious crapweasle started over towards me chortling at my leg brace with clear intent to try and swipe the crutch. 'I wouldn't advise doing that' I said, 'Yes, you are right. This is a crutch but it is also a fuck off great big metal pole and I will have no hesitation in beating you repeatedly around the head with it if you try and take the piss.'

Every taxi driver I've come into contact with in the last 3 weeks asks the same question. 'Oh what happened to your leg.' And I'm getting really rather bored of explaining. I might just have the whole story tattooed to my forehead so if anyone else needs the 411 I can just say 'Yes Yes, my leg is fucked. I refer you to my forehead for full details. Now drive motherfucker.'

It never ceases to amaze me how much Brighton taxi drivers find to complain about. You'd think having driven around the same city for 5 years they'd be used to 15 year-old slags with their arses hanging out of their knickers flinging themselves across the road after the lights have changed, or lorry drivers stopping in irritating places at irritating times of day but apparently not. Brighton is a weird town full of weird people expressing themselves in weird ways. If you're not big into individualism I wouldn't recommend working a job where you meet a new member of our colourful and overtly homosexual community on average every 15 minutes.

'Oh look at that wanker over there' said this one particular taxi dude the other night on the way into town, indicating a rather eccentric looking man in a peak cap crossing the road like someone from the ministry of silly walks: 'They come down here with their poofy fucking clothes and their funny walks! Tch....!'

'Yeah,' said I 'Yeah I know what you mean' ....thinking, 'you mean that poor bastard over their with two prosthetic legs? Yeah what a fucking gall.'

Anyhoodle. Going back to my next big clusterfuck. I'm thinking a jaunt down Ibiza way my stem the boredom til the next ski season. Belle has been having beachside dreams, people. Who knows, I could be writing to you from The Blue Marlin this time in 4 months. Think of all the trouble I could get myself into. All the other body parts I could break! I'll keep you informed.

hasta maƱana

Thursday, 4 March 2010

They are dropping like flies!

Things are looking up. Have bonded with cat. Even though I still maintain it is pure distilled evil:

It kills everything in sight. There are dead mice littering the carpet every day. I am only nice to it when no one is looking.

Also, knee looks less and less like a giant canteloupe melon and more and more like a knee, with knobbly bits and everything. Although it won't straighten completely, or bend beyond about 90 degrees and is gut-churningly wibbly wobbly if I try to put weight on it sans leg-brace.

Am spending far too much time chatting on Facebook to people from the ski resort. The stalwart Seasonaires, it seems, are dropping like flies.

L has left the building. Come home out of choice because she'd had enough.
J is at home feeling as equally bored and frustrated as I am with a delightful compound fracture to the ankle.
Marks and Sparks has torn the ligaments in her ankle rendering her temporarily unable to snowboard but able to work. Which must be hellish.
E and W (to whom I don't think thus far you have been introduced) are also out of action having respectively slipped a disk and punctured a lung.
...and SbH has developed a cough that would make a tuberculosis sufferer proud.

.... it's like the Somme out there. And, selfishly, somewhat of a comfort to think I'm not the only person who's managed to fuck themselves up.

Chatting to everyone is a welcome distraction from my other activity options: a) watching paint dry b) opening and closing the kitchen cupboards. Over the years I've become quite good at filling idle headspace with various pointless yet satisfying activities. Even in the chalet things could get very ennuyeux. Sometimes our clients were a hoot. But not always. The last set I had before I left were about as fun as a burning orphanage and took twenty minutes to make even the simplest decision...like whether or not they wanted boiled eggs for breakfast.

While one was usually always busy, occasionally one would find oneself waiting around with bugger all to do. So I came up with a list of covert and distinctly unprofessional activities to keep things interesting:

1. Fist about rearranging things. Putting candles on the table. Tossing about folding towels decoratively in the bathroom. That type of thing.
2. Have a very long poo - steal magazines from people's bedrooms if needed.
3. Get plastered. Drinking wine out of a mug always works as you can pretend its coffee.
4. Think up rude nicknames for your clients - over the season we came up with 'Cuntface', 'Damian' (that child was possessed by Satan, I swear), and 'Shitstick' (that was the toilet brush turd guy - you remember...)
5. Muse on life the universe and everything.
6. Scour chalet for objects to toboggan home on. Over the season we tried bin liners, dry cleaning bags and a suit case. The suit case was surprisingly shit.
7. My personal favourite...have a wank in the store cupboard - at the risk of being busted or contaminating the fruit and veg, this is a great way to kill ten minutes.

A demain....

Wednesday, 3 March 2010

Come with me if you want to live....

Songs for the day:
Rolling Stones: You can't always get what you want
Elton John: I guess that's why they call it the blues
Hours of life wasted: Far too many

How long can you get away with sitting around in your underwear, heckling crap daytime telly and throwing things at people before you get sectioned?

I only ask as a matter of interest. As it happens I have not been doing the above, but am considering it as an alternative option since today my motivation levels are negligible. Until today I, very worthily I thought, had devised myself a maintain-sanity-and-some-level-of-fitness-routine in the style of Sarah Connor in Terminator 2. You can imagine me doing pull ups in my bedroom while my Dad peers in through the door in bewilderment. Although, in fact, the actual schedule goes something more like this:

  • Get up, drink coffee.
  • Hobble around the garden smoking and swearing a lot.
  • Tell cat to fuck off.
  • Drink another coffee.
  • Fantasize about SbH. Consider calling SbH for chat. Realise a) he's either at work or snow boarding b) don't want to bum the boy out with too much of my whinging.
  • Sit on floor and do various exercises prescribed by physio - wince in agony and fully grasp quite how mashed knee is.
  • Sit at lap top. Consider doing work. Stare into space.
  • Eye up chocolate bar. Resist with The Will of Allah.
  • Smoke
  • Drink coffee
....and repeat 3 times daily....

Truly this is agony.

I have no independence. I cannot leave the house without cadging a lift from my Dad, as I can't depress pedals in the car. And the house is quite literally in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. So it's not like I can pop to the shops for a distraction - and besides I also have no money as I spent it all on treatment and getting back to the UK and - oh yes - am also now unemployed. Cream on top, nes pas?

And the gargantuan amount of coffee is a terrible, terrible plan. Having been incredibly active from December to February, I now spend most of my time sitting. This means every muscle in my body is tingling and twitching with expendable energy that has nowhere to go. Add to this my fairly advanced caffeine addiction and ....jumpy? I'm like a freaking jack in the box. I wake up about fifteen times every night.

...and I'm hornier than a reindeer on horny goat weed, darling. Oh for the halcyon days of three weeks ago. Even with my leg in a splint, an evening in the oh so capable hands of SbH was still three shades of awesome. Hmn... perhaps I should send him a webcam in the post. Now there's an idea...

This afternoon the routine went completely out of the window, along with my brain. In fact I just lay pointlessly on the couch wallowing unashamedly in self pity and staring at tiny motes floating in the air across the room. There was a bit of half-hearted, watery sunshine plunging in through the window. It made the motes sparkle and dance, which reminded me of fairy dust. That's just callous. If there's a god and he's reading this... then I would just like to say 'you callous bastard!'

However, I fear my delightfully (I am told) abstract mind may be wandering into the realms of extremity due to cabin fever. I don't want to talk too much balderdash, so perhaps I should stop writing for today. Mine are but the troubles of a spoilt middle class brat. So I shall complain no more.

I really do wish that cat would fuck off though.

Monday, 1 March 2010

'Everything happens for a reason'

...if one more vacuous individual tries to make me feel better with this cod-shit phrase I swear I'll garrote them with their own shoe laces.

I'm at that stage in the game where everyone - friends, family, random punters in the street, taxi drivers - has an opinion on my predicament. And unfortunately I have become far too stroppy, embittered and frustrated an individual, of late, to sit and listen wisely.

I used to be terrific at taking advice. Actually I prided myself on it. Learn by others' mistakes. Live fast but prudently. Take considered risks. Then my world collapsed. If I'd fallen in love, bought a home and got engaged naively, which I had, my illusions were shattered. If I'd played the good girl game (got the A+, the degree, the job) on the assumption good things come to those who toe the line, it appeared I was wrong. If I'd counted on the presence of someone important in my life, she was gone. My whole blueprint for life was proved unequivocally inaccurate. So I fucked it all off.

Hence the job quittage, fuckwittage, hurlage of self off ski jumps on dodgy skiis and subsequent mashed up knee (which, incidentally, isn't now in plaster. It's in a bionic-looking hinged splint which allows me to walk, but the ligament hasn't been fixed yet. I look like robocop, or as Big Brother 2.1 oh so hilariously christened me 'The Vaginator'.)

When you throw caution to the wind, something inevitably is going to get damaged. Suppose I'm lucky it wasn't my head.

But this piffle about everything happening for a reason really gets on my tits. Whose reason? Captain God with the Big Beard? Oh do fuck off. This is just a stock phrase people reel off when they don't know what else to say. If you're telling me one day I will stumble joyfully across the 'reason' why my best friend collapsed and died before she even got a sniff of 26 years old, then forgive my cynicism, but bollocks! Chaos rains. The reason she died, and the reason I'm in this leaky boat of a situation is the same reason a baboon has a giant red arse. It just is.

Therefore I must sink or swim. And I choose swim.

I suppose what everyone means, when they say 'everything happens for a reason' is that eventually, I will look back down the dark tunnel of this time and find some positive gain out of the whole experience. Some cause and effect that will make the whole thing, not worthwhile, but somehow beneficial, or strengthening. And I guess I can swallow that. But for now, just please don't tell me everything happens for a reason. Or I'll poo stomp you.

A demain.