The Season is winding down. Bars are shutting. Seasonaires are starting to talk about 'the future'. The bubble is set to burst.
Despite this, while I was visiting there fell some of the best snow all winter. This has been much to the chagrin of SbH who, due to a heroic (or jaegar-bomb fueled) leap from the bench to the speaker to the pole in his favourite evening haunt has busted his shin and can't snowboard much. There is a giant, angry purplish welt right where his snowboard boot digs into the flesh, which results in many a wince when he tries to do it up. While pig-headed stubbornness, heavy duty painkillers administered by yours truly, arnica administered by E and toffee vodka shots administered by himself have gone someway to enabling a few hours of the slopes, even the lightest touch to the wound produces a melodramatic flinch worthy of an Oscar. Ah well. As I keep telling myself, there's always next year.
I shall miss Family Numero 405, those creatures of the ski-bum crack den who kept me giggling from the moment I arrived until the moment I left. E, of course and lanky Skater Boy, (who so nobly lent us his bed) with his inexplicable ability to charm drunk, unsuspecting ladies through his revolving bedroom door (I think it's his eyes, possibly the aftershave and emo hair), incessant need for romantic drama in his life and inability to find rizlas, ever.
But the boy, of course, made the whole thing a hoot. I must thank him for being there in a dark time back in February with patience, occasionally telling me to Man the Fuck Up and always beguiling me with that head-back, extremely sexy belly laugh of his. For always living up to his name by having scruffy hair (which is surfing worryingly close to mullet territory now...I'm just saying love) and socks which are so crispy they require breaking in half over the knee before wearing. For his tabasco addiction. For being so protective of his arse, and being convinced on the 1st April by Skater Boy that we'd lubed it up while he was passed out drunk and slipped a potato up there in the night. For living true to the statement 'one man's rubbish is another man's treasure' and thereby being so adept at finding random and wonderful things in skips. Like a monoski with a Toucan and palm trees decorated on it, some absolutely rancid racing gloves and a stray dog named Bruce. Well, the dog wasn't in the skip, but you get the idea.
For letting me clean his toilets on changeover day, I must also thank him. That's not a euphemism. I actually did clean his toilets. However, what I got in return was breakfast, lunch and an absolutely filthy 45 minutes in the shower which I won't be forgetting in a hurry but the details of which I hesitate to divulge at the risk of confirming rumours that we're a bit kinky. Just know, changeover day in SbH's chalet is about so much more than windowlene.
Well it's all over for Belle for now.
What's that you say? 'Get a job?'
I'll see you in Ibiza darling, where no doubt I will find an equally if not more worrying bunch of characters to amuse both myself and you with.
Anyhoodle, people. I'm not exactly sure what just happened here but it was fucking funny. Let's do it again next year.