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

Belle de Neige

Friday, 11 June 2010

Slumdog Seasonaire

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.

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