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

Belle de Neige

Thursday, 3 May 2012

SbH and the art of over-achieving

“I’ve blown my shoulder out,”  SbH said mournfully down the phone to me.

It was about twenty four hours after I’d seen a (nother) Facebook picture of him running around an apr├Ęs ski bar with his eyes looking in different directions and his bollocks out.

“How?” Please tell me it was at least a cool snowboarding trick that did it.

“I was trying to do a handstand...”

Oh bother.

I wasn’t amused. This was rather a large fuck up on his behalf. You see, it was all going to be different this year. We were going to get the big ‘job on a yacht’ (hopefully owned by an absentee Russian billionaire with a penchant for big tips) and spend the summer up to our glands in cash, expensive watches, speedboats and champagne. Instead, due to a cruel twist of both fate and all the ligaments in SbH’s shoulder we are sentenced to morphing right back into our roles as the freeloading between-seasons drifter people that everyone despises. How on earth did I end up back here? Jobless, penniless and soon (when I sell the house I can’t afford) homeless as well. Notion of possibly having to slope back to my childhood bedroom with my tail between my legs for the summer is quite horrifying. Daddy will be pleased.

At least for now we have The House. Although one of the lodgers (a poison dwarf with helmet hair and, it is fast becoming apparent, sever control issues) was none-too-pleased when my dishevelled partner in crime turned up with a tectonic convergence of clothes unwashed since November to deal with and exploded all over the house.

“Er....I was just wondering,” she said a few days ago, hovering tentatively in my bedroom door way. “Is he going to be staying long?”
“Why? Would that be a problem?” I asked, smiling sweetly.
“Well yes, frankly” she sniffed. “It would have been nice to have at least been consulted”

Oh do fuck off. I haven’t had a decent fuck since February, when I went to stay with him in his over-populated ski resort digs and to be blunt I’m not going to let a sexually frustrated UmpaLumpa get in the way of my orgasmic needs.

I plastered the most concerned-for-your-feelings expression I could muster over my features while battling with the thought that this was pretty fucking pert of her. Is it common practise for a landlady to request formal permission from a lodger if she wants to have her boyfriend to stay? I don't fucking think so.

But she pressed on...

“I just think it’s going to be a bit crowded, you know, with one more person using the bathroom and the kitchen all the time."

My tentacles started to flex. I wanted deeply for her to get out of my face.
In all truth, she had not picked the best day to tackle me on this subject. I was not in the most jovial of moods, having had a rather big weekend (for when one is unemployed what else can one do but get tight?) The comedown is the hell of all diseases. Most tortuous of all, because it is self-inflicted and therefore reprehensible. If you are short sighted enough to make a deal with the devil and wax all your fun tokens in one go, for one pure moment of pleasure that’s your affair, and you must accept the repercussions. You must accept, for example, that for several days afterwards you will hate absolutely everything and everyone with a quite terrifying Hitler-esque rage. You will crave sweet, cloying things like ice cream and chocolate, sexual gratification and booze – the things that might ordinarily make your little cup of joy overflow – only to find that the inside of your mouth has been upholstered in leather. Food turns to ash on your tongue, tea makes your stomach churn, there is no iridescent beauty in a blue sky, you are filled with a distinct sense of apathy about the world and everyone in it. Is it worth it, for that one night of saturation? Well, yes, if you want my personal opinion. But one must be aware of the bargain one has struck and cope with it accordingly. And if you’re on the receiving end of someone’s terrible Tuesday my advice is – get out of the way as swiftly as possible and preferably shut the hell up.

The UmpaLumpa had clearly not cottoned on to my rabid state of mind. However, one thing being a Chalet Bitch has taught me and that’s the importance of being supremely two-faced in situations such as this. In other words, I know I’m a cunt, but nobody else has to. So instead of getting irate I simply said:
“Oh dear”
“God I’m so sorry”
All the time imagining what it would be like to pick her up, hang her on the hook on the back of my bedroom door by her collar and then poke her with sharp objects.

Honestly, being this pleasant all the time is incredibly fatiguing...

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