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

Belle de Neige

Thursday, 26 April 2012

The Chairlift of Lost Hope

I have a question:

How is it possible to retain one's sanity, nay, one's very civility, when one seems to be constantly surrounded by complete dick heads? And if not dick heads then incompetent let-downs, straight-forward fruit cakes or (by far the worst) whingey wet-blanket types who moan on about everything as if I give a shit.

News flash. I don't. Bugger off.

God everyone gets on my tits. With their habits and ways and points of view. Putting on a polite, interested face is exhausting, particularly when your inner monologue is (as mine tends to be) at extremely stark odds to your innocuous exterior persona. It occurs to me how extremely inflammatory (yet oddly liberating) it would be if everyone within my realm of acquaintance that I thought was a cunt knew I thought they were a cunt. That I am, in point of fact, at best totally indifferent to their feelings and views and merely putting on the front of giving a shit for a quiet life, so they'll hopefully shut the fuck up and go away. I can count the number of people I actually like and would seek to spend time with on one hand, so pretending to be bothered about cultivating a friendship with someone I see as being merely a means to an end is nothing but a tiresome, constructed social obligation.

I am speaking of my lodgers. Yes, I have lodgers. Three of them. Which, by association must mean I have a house and  therefore a mortgage, right? Right. Well that's a turn up for the books.

The truth is I have had a mortgage all along. It fell into my possession a few years ago when I was with a man who was and to some extent still is, seriously in need of having his bumps checked. The story  went something like this:

  • Wake up one morning, realise you are getting a little long in the tooth to be still living in a one-bed rented flat, and waxing all your cash on coke
  • Decide this lifestyle doesn't fit with your projected brand image or compare favourably with that of your peers
  • Look at finances, realise situation hopeless as self-employed and up-to-bollocks/vagina in debt 
  • Have sudden brainwave
  • Convince hapless father to part with some cash to aid you and your beloved's  'first step on property ladder' 
  • Buy ridiculously, needlessly gigantic house at top of market on pretence of it being 'a long term investment and future family home' against all advice to the contrary and your own gut feelings.
  • Move in and turn into a sulky bastards because it costs a lot to maintain
  • After a year of stress and misery decide to get married to patch up problems
  • Get cold feet, call it all off
  • Decide to fuck off and do a ski season, leaving cat and The House in hands of Ex-Fiancée-that-needs-his-bumps-checked.
  • Watch in horror as property market crashes 
  • Receive phone call from  Ex-Fiancée-that-needs-his-bumps-checked to the effect that he can no longer afford The House and wishes to move out, live in one-bed rented flat and go back to waxing all his cash on coke.
Ah well. So culminates a long career of impulsive decision making and trying to run before one can walk. Study the past, if you would divine the future.

So thanks to all these elephantine levels of fuckwittage on behalf of more than one cunt (and I include myself there) everything went a bit Afgan after that. Needless to say in the last six months I have had to spend far too much time in the company of my  Ex-Fiancée-that-needs-his-bumps-checked under the shadow of a dangerously psychotic lawyer-wielding ex-friend, wondering what on earth to do with looming spectre of The House (now a rather lack-lustre-tumbledown-weed-encrusted-front-falling-off-the-building-and-leaky-showers affair) in the midst of a recession.

Prior to all this life was peachy keen. Scruffy-but-Handsome and I spent the run up to Christmas working on a yacht in Greece and had great plans to swan off on another ski season together come January, but alas. Instead I found myself waving him off on a ski season without me and moving back into The House - the seat of all my former commute-based, nine-to-five, two-point-four beige-coloured despair. And this brings me to the lodgers, who I brought in to fill the gaping chasm in my finances which can barely cover the internet connection, let alone the giant mortgage. 

You see, the problem with taking the ostrich approach to life (burying your head in the sand and ignoring the unfortunate reality of some inordinately bad decisions you made a few years ago) is that position puts your arse neatly on show. Mine was just ripe for being either bitten or having the erect cock of fate thrust savagely into it without a by or leave. Which has duly happened.

So here I am, three years on from that fateful moment on the tube when I thought 'fuck this, I'm going skiing for the rest of my life'. Right back where I started.

But this time, with lodgers and a very very different man about the house.

Should make for an interesting summer...

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