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

Belle de Neige

Monday, 9 August 2010

Sometimes it's not the wrong key, it's the wrong door...

You know you're a bit tired/preoccupied/run down when you spend ten minutes having a scuffle with the coded lock on the changing room door at the gym.

Huffing and puffing. Stamping your feet in exasperation and poking aggressively at the buttons. Rattling the door handle in anger.


'Is the code still 247?????' at frightened passers by.

You know you've got 'things' on your mind when you eventually win this battle with the changing room door and saunter in, mostly contemplating your trainers, walk right up to the lockers and notice, only then, that you have made an error. That your eyes are, in fact, suddenly locked with those of a half naked, half confused, half amused-looking (and oooh, quite dishy) chap, with one eyebrow raised, archly.

'Oh fuck. This is the men's!'

There followed much hysteria from them and much scuttling back the way I'd come from me. It wasn't that I was embarrassed....You know me....any chance to be in a room full of naked men with damp torsos.... but it did make me slightly concerned for my mind. I mean, I am a bit of a space cadet at times but this performance was special.

So what's eating Belle de Neige? I boiled it down to 3 major preoccupations du jour:

1. My 'monthly gift' as mother nature calls it on the tampax ads, had not arrived on schedule - always a killer for the background brain noise, that one.
2. I had not had sex for over 2 weeks - usually enough to render me not just dappy but homicidal.
3.I have not yet got a firm job lined up for next season. Clearly the biggest fly in the ointment of my life at the moment.

You'll pleased to hear numero uno is no longer a concern, numero dos is being sorted on Friday (woohoooo!) and numero tres is progressing - I have been offered an interview.

But all of the above pales into significance against the backdrop of the enormous cunting fuck I found out today. That my knee 'may' not be strong enough to ski on by next season.

Well isn't that grand.

The path of my life is strewn with cow pats from the devil's own satanic herd. Blackadder's line, not mine.

I am going to spend the rest of the day sulking and eating Lindt chocolate. Please leave a message with my secretary.....


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