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

Belle de Neige

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....


  1. RE: Picture of Cat. Why is there what appears to be shotgun on table in background?

    Was it possible solution to cat problem?

  2. Yes. I did consider it. It's actually a musket....

    ...that doesn't sound any better does it?


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