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

Belle de Neige

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.

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