It occurs to me that somewhere down the line in the last year I stopped placing any value on the things that used to make my little cup of job simply overflow. Glamour, comfort and personal hygiene, for example. Somewhere down the line I have reverted into the grubby footed, unwashed urchin of my younger country girl days.
Now I know there are those among you who would argue that I have always been an urchin. But some may care to remember that I used to live in a really rather nicely turned out house of my own, in a quite posh part of town. With furniture and shit. And art and curtains and cutlery, with a hoover and bathbombs and a fruit bowl. And a cat.
So why, when I find myself living in a lovely (well...clean, spacious and convenient) flat, on a sun-drenched holiday island and am sitting in a delightful beach-front restaurant staring out at a glittering ocean and cobalt sky... can I only think of how much I miss the crack den hovel of the ski resort?
I genuinely miss the ash-covered floor, scattered with raw potatoes and condoms. The stinky duvet and crispy socks. Getting into bed with crumbs on my feet.
All I dream of is the misty mountains. The biting cold.
I miss my pom pom hat. You really don't need them here in this heat. You'd look a right cunt.
Which is why I spend every spare minute applying for ski jobs. My heart belongs to the mountains.
Truly, as my ex declared on skype the other day....I have become a Slumdog Snob. Too posh to wash baby. Yeah.