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

Belle de Neige

Wednesday, 5 May 2010

Belle de Neige....lost in Space

He: 'What was it I said to you the first time we shagged?'

Me: 'Erm...I think it was "this isn't going to get complicated, is it?" '

Silence

Me: 'It's not complicated though. Is it?'

He: 'Noooo. No. Not complicated. Not at all'

Me: 'Cool.'

I was lying on that grotty mattress, listening to E snoring - like a living heap of dirty laundry in the corner. The soothing morning sun was on my face and a cool mountain breeze drifting through the window - and it occurred to me - sometimes, the more uncomplicated you try to make something, the more complicated it gets.

This is true of life, the universe and everything, as well as relationships. And so to keep things beautifully simple I find it's sometimes best to just blindly forge ahead without thinking, or talking, too much about it. Or to put it another way, bury your head in the sand. Big Brother 2.1 says, at least 1/3rd of all life's problems just disappear if you ignore them stoically enough. Apart from maybe syphilis or pregnancy. And I think he's right.

Which is why I, like many of the other people who have just crash-landed from the pristine slopes of paradise back on this volcanic ash-infested, election-mania shit heap of an island, am planning to leave again.... before my toes have but grazed the puddled ground.

And now I have answered the cosmic question:'How do I fill the time between now and the next ski season?' it appears to me that sometimes seemingly insurmountable challenges are overcome in the easiest of steps...

So a few weeks ago I managed to convince some hapless bugger to give me a job. In Ibiza. And a flat. The job is too vile for words, but a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do. And what can I say; Ibiza's digital marketing industry needs me? No, I won't be selling my arse. Unless things get really tight. In which case arse-selling is listed Plan D, after Go-Go Dancing and becoming a bikini-waxer. You know my views on other people's hair.

Anyway, there are options.

I'll be sharing the flat with The Boss, who is quite clearly an enormous caner and plans to split the summer season between larging it on the White Isle and a more sober desk-job at home. The only other occupant - The DJ - is a pleasant enough chap on the phone - but one's got to have one or two reservations about living with a newly single DJ the wrong side of forty. I don't mind him being a fuckhead. As long as he doesn't try to fuck me.

'Are they a nice lot? The girls you'll be living with?' asked my Nanna, innocently over a cup of coffee the other day.

'Errr..... Yes Nan! Lovely girls. Really sweet. Very demure'

No point. There was just no point.

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