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a restless spirit

travels, trials and trivialities

To The Third

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Trekking up to the top of a lift to watch the sunrise was a goal I had before coming out here on a ski season but i thought of it as a bit like a goal to complete the London marathon – completely un bloody realistic and had the likelihood of killing me before I finished anyway.

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But, on the 13th April, at 5:45am, I made it 2,695 metres up to the top of the Toviere Gondola along with two of my co-workers. It was freezing and I was mildly concerned that frostbite was an imminent threat. We couldn’t have timed it more perfectly, the moon was full and so all the light we needed was cast down on us from the midnight blue sky.

To the east, on the horizon, the deep navy is giving way to softer hues of dusky orange and yellow, the time is coming. 

*DISCLAIMER*: Before any of you hiker snobs make any remarks – no i didn’t trek the ENTIRE 2,695 metres, calm down, that would be ridiculous. We started at resort level of 2,100 and so climbed almost 600 metres up.

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I’ll admit, parts of the two hour trek up felt somewhat reminiscent of a horror film – three young adventurers alone in the dramatic exposed landscape, I didn’t know what to fear most, the possibility of an avalanche, some crazed piste-basher mass murderer or perhaps a yeti/ Unfriendly pack of European wolves. (Slightly irrational, I know.)

It was hard – about 50 metres in I was ready to admit defeat and go back to my nice warm bed, but somehow I found myself trudging on, sweating and breathing so hard that a tight ball of pain was forming in the centre of my chest. We made reference points for quick breaks, mainly every 3rd snow canon we reached. Faces covered in a desperate sheen visible in the moonlight, bodies weary but minds exhilarated, we glanced at each other and breathed; ‘to the third’.

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Now the sun is pursuing the moon,  and the giant pearly sphere is descending into a deep lilac haze behind the western peaks. To the east, orange and salmon pink rip into the skyline bringing light and warmth with them.

It’s hard to believe that such a beautiful natural phenomenon happens everyday and here we all are continuing like oblivious ants underneath it.

Staring into the bright ascending sun has a power to make you feel incredibly insignificant – especially also being surrounded by vast snow-covered mountains. The fact that such a dark, eerie place is transformed within an hour to a golden paradise which looks like how I can only imagine heaven to look is overwhelming.

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Throughout this trek (ordeal) I often stood to enjoy the silence – absolute dead silence seemed impossible in so much space, but there we were, the three of us, standing with nothing but our backpacks and snowboards and some essential snacks (obviously).

Although we walked up pisted terrain, and were always in view of Tignes resort centre below us; just the sheer desolation of the mountains at 3am is the closest to the complete wild I have ever been, and it was exhilarating.

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The amazing photos in this blog were taken by a mysterious local legend named Dr John Clark. 

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The Home Stint

In the midst of the end-of-season-madness, I was lucky enough to pop home for three days – by some absolute fluke, I had been chosen to win an award at my University and so thought what a lovely opportunity to go back home, get spoilt (and fed) for a couple of days and be reunited with the furry, four-legged love of my life – a short holiday if you like.

Returning to the UK was as to be expected – the sky was grey and absolutely zero had changed. It was bizarre, everything that I had thought mundane and routine 5 months ago was now a complete novelty, I found myself really taking in peoples faces, voices, the new found energy I had – no doubt as a result of increased oxygen levels being closer to sea level.  What brought this lovely family vacation to a halt, however, was the exact reason I had come home in the first place. The award. Returning to University to get asked all the same questions about ‘my plans’ and ‘my future’ and ‘my career’ – I felt like each question was a nail banging into the wood of my coffin – you might aswell all bury me now with a full-time-big-girl job.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to end up in a successful job doing something I love, but in reality that doesn’t really feel like an option, especially when my priority right now is to travel, I have been out of the rat race for 5 months, and I’d very much like it to stay that way.

Sure, money has been tight and sometimes non-existent; the bank of Mum and Dad (and sister) has saved me from starvation and overdraft charges on more than one occasion. It will be nice to once again work for a decent wage and feel a sense of achievement when I can put money away each week and start paying my family back; but I can already feel myself itching for the next adventure. Which both excites me and worries me like hell – Am I always going to be so impatient? So restless? So easily bored? How can I advance into some sort of career when I can’t stand being in one place for too long? How am I going to move back into my parents’ house without it driving both them and myself crazy?

What I am now focused on is getting my van ready to hit the road at the end of the summer, because regardless of job I find myself doing – I’ll always be able to escape for a couple of days at least as soon as I clock off.

The 10 Hardest Decisions You Will Have To Make On a Ski Season

 

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what spot to sunbathe in is always up for debate.

 

Life is somewhat different in the mountains, priorities shift and you find yourself doing things you would completely NOT do at home, like going three weeks without showering. (Joke) Therefore, you meet a daily challenge of sleeping or showering, buying food or alcohol, hitting the slopes or hitting the pillow, punching a guest in the face or calmly walking away…….

To apres, or to napres?

At the beginning of the season, I was told ‘you will never catch up on your sleep for the next 5 months’. I thought she was joking. Turns out she really wasn’t. Sleep becomes the elusive magnificent thing that very rarely happens, so on day off, when everyone is heading to the bar, you are faced with the ultimate Hamlet-esque metaphysical dilemma of ‘to apres, or to napres?’ Do I choose sleep over socialising? Do I drag my unshowered, zombie-brain body out into the daylight? The mind boggles.

 

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Actual footage of a seasonnaire after transfer day.

 

Do I use my last €10 on food or alcohol?

Picture this, you’re starving hungry, it’s a white-out blizzard outside, you’re not getting paid for another 2 weeks and you have ten euros to last you. You venture out to Sherpa, wearing enough layers to rival an onion, the bitter cold biting your cheeks and the harsh northerly wind nearly sweeping you off your feet. You enter the shop, breathless, disorientated and now a little bit sweaty. You could buy some dry pasta and a big jar of sauce and be left with change, or you could buy 18 kronenbourgs and be done with it- we all know where that money went.

To pay out in the medical centre or to potentially die

Knocked yourself out recently? Losing a bit of blood here and there? Just go home and sleep it off, nobody has the time or the money to be sat around in the medical centre. Slap a plaster on it and carry on or face a medical bill that you know you can’t really afford. After two stints in the medical centre raising a grand total of €160, it’s safe to say I’d rather lose a limb than pay anymore money just to be told I’m ‘bon’.

To wash the hair or to do just about anything else

It’s a big job. Also because I do not have the funds to get a haircut out here, my hair has grown a substantial amount making it an even BIGGER task. I also failed to realise when packing that 5 months away from home might involve me needing to use a hairdryer at some point. So finding the time to not just wash my hair but also leave it to dry in a towel doesn’t come around very often. (Dry shampoo = best invention known to man.)

 

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not showered? work the wet hair look.

 

Do the conditions look right for me today?

The first time I went on a ski holiday, and admittedly for the first couple of weeks of the season, I was bowled over by the mountains and wanted to snowboard every second of the day, regardless of the conditions. Now if there is a cloud covering the sun at any point I’ve decided it’s just not worth it. I’ll take a look out of my window, and ponder whether I should spend the day snowboarding, or spend the day doing what I do best, absolutely fuck all.

 

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‘I think I’ll pass today, looks pretty cloudy.’

 

Is this person attractive… or am I wearing season goggles?

Apparently, season goggles are a thing. Like beer goggles but mountainified. Does that person you keep sleeping with really look like Zac Efron or will he look like Shrek when you return to sea level? People are limited in the mountains, but our inhibitions certainly aren’t. Even worse – are YOU the person who is being seen through season goggles? What’s to guarantee that they won’t wake up on the 30th April goggle-less and send you packing…..

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Do I wear outfit number one… or number one with a different hat?

I can personally guarantee you that you will wear every outfit you brought with you about 15 times over. You might start to fret that people will spot it, but don’t worry we’re all in the same boat, everyone looks like shit and only has about 1 and a half pairs of socks left.

To contact the outside world, or to remain safe….

I haven’t read the UK news all season, I haven’t heard about what the bitch from high school is up to, I haven’t had to deal with any petty dramas that only arise at home… therefore there is always a risk when you facetime your family/friends that the usual BS  might reach you in the Alps.

Walk of shame or early morning adventure

So a lot of staff accom is based inside actual guest chalets, which makes for a lovely cosy living space but a hella difficult stealthy getaway in the morning. Picture yourself climbing through boot room windows, breaking Usain Bolt’s 100m sprint record, traversing down banks and wading through knee-deep snow just to avoid the awkward run in with Peter and Sally from Kent at 7:30am.

*This issue can however be resolved by becoming ‘the girlfriend’ and being introduced.

Should I stay or should I go?

We all have our crap times, and some more than others. You might find yourself at 12am crying into your cling-filmed leftovers because guests are being wankers, because you miss your dog, or for absolutely no apparent reason whatsoever, but stick it out, because when the sun comes out and you adopt the end-of-season IDGAF attitude, it will all feel worth it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Turning 21

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(Obligatory baby picture because I am approaching a milestone birthday, obviously.)

Admittedly, it’s been a while. And honestly, that’s because I haven’t felt positive or upbeat enough to provide you with the sarcastic, humourous wit that you all deserve. This dip in the rollercoaster that is ‘the ski season’ has been for several reasons. Firstly, because two of my favourite humans on the planet upped and left (also being my housemates) secondly, because things went slightly sideways at home with family illnesses and the geriatric generation deciding it was time for a hospital stint, and thirdly because I had quite possibly the rudest, most obnoxious and disrespectful guests on planet earth grace one of my chalets with their hideous presence.

But – that’s life, when you’re up, you’re on cloud 9, and when you’re down you might aswell take a seat with a bottle of something strong and wait for the storm to pass. (And no, I didn’t get that quote from some shit tumblr account with a picture of a dramatic landscape in the background.)

Let’s begin with the delightful guests I had, shall we? They boarded my bus at the airport, reeking of alcohol and with southern English accents comparable to the foreboding sound of an air raid siren. In the great words of Taylor Swift, I knew they were trouble when they walked in. (well technically, walked ON, to the bus.)

The coach journey began, and within 10 minutes, they were demanding a stop because one of them was ‘about to piss me’sewf’ even though we had LITERALLY just left the airport. We did so, much at the annoyance of my driver, and upon stopping, one of the women cladded in fake tan and eyelashes, raised up, as if in prayer, and slumped in slow motion to the floor of the bus. Picture this, a coach containing a variety of people, families, older couples, young children, and a group of 18 25-35 year old chavs who apparently are only just discovering the effects of alcohol. The best part of it was, this group were heading to my platinum chalet. Fantastic. The rest of the coach journey was much the same, aggressive overweight men demanding to stop, and their trout faced orange girlfriends looking at me as if I was somehow the inconvenience. I was having a bad week as it were, and when the ringleader of this group, ironically named after a beautiful flower, told me that the lesson times available were ‘ rubbish’ I decided I had had enough. No amount of money could make me want to do this job – nevermind the peanuts I am currently on. I attempted to hand my notice in the very next day but instead negotiated new terms with my managers. I would no longer rep that chalet for the week and I would move into new accommodation because the messy state of my own and the impending absence of two of my housemates was getting me down .

And since, I have just about managed to pull myself together (again.) The sun has come out, and my wonderful lobster shade of burn is slowly turning to bronze, my passion for customer service in the face of absolute arseholes is slowly turning into placated indifference and my confusing ‘situationship’ is slowly turning into straightforward, trusting love.

The next hurdle I face, is turning 21 out here. (28th March, feel free to send money/buy me a holiday/puppy) Away from my family, away from friends back home, but incredibly independent and surrounded by people that I feel like I’ve known forever; and not just that, people who I feel genuinely care about me. But 21 – shit, that means I’m officially an adult everywhere. I feel like I have no security blanket in front of me anymore – I’ve done the university thing, I’ve done the ski season thing, and I’m terrified that I’m going to go back home to multiple questions about what my ‘career plan’ is when they full well bloody know I don’t have one. I’m not ready for that! I feel like my opportunities to travel are only just starting, I feel like the bride who gets cold feet before the wedding – it’s all very serious all of a sudden and my parents’ expectations and responsibilities at home are like one big fat golden wedding ring. If I go off to Australia at the end of the year like I want to, I feel like I’d be jumping ship on my mum, dad and sister, and leaving them to deal with one OAP who refuses to do anything that’s good for him and another who is emotionally unavailable and was raised by unfeeling Victorians.

That’s the problem about being twenty-something, you’re young enough to not be ready for real life, and you’re also old enough to start dealing with it. Being twenty-something makes me want to be very selfish, and go off and see the world, but it also makes me want to take the strain off the ones who have given me this amazing life.

Piste Problems

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Here I am, back by popular demand, armed and ready with material for my online rant, the topic of which, is going to be problems of the piste. We all have them, the beautiful sport does indeed come with some difficulties. If your goggles aren’t steamed up or your hands aren’t feeling like they’re about to drop off, you’re clearly doing something wrong.

 

1. Ski Schools

Like a deadly line of conga, once you’re in it, you’re not getting out of it easily. Snaking their way down the mountain these stealthy infants might look adorable in their pastel coloured all-in-ones but let me tell you, the manoeuvres I have had to pull off to avoid wiping out a small child have been the closest to death I have gotten so far. Once you find yourself in the midst of that ski school, you are now officially a pupil, wherever they go, you’re going too, hell, maybe you might even learn something new. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favour.

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2. Cutter – uppers 

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy  a little mess around at the side of the piste as much a the next person and I like to go fast on my board. BUT, would I bloody merge onto the M6 doing 75mph in rush hour without looking? Hell no! So why do some individuals feel the need to cut onto the piste at the speed of light without so much as a sideways glance!?!? Honestly, this isn’t the winter Olympics, there’s no talent scouts perched ready at the side of the piste, let’s all clam down a bit and exercise some etiquette.

3. The French

*DISCLAIMER*: Based on personal experience, I find the following to be true. This is not a generalisation but merely an observation.

The French, they’re arrogant, they’re impatient and they bring their crazy driving habits onto the slopes. And yes, they both smell and smoke one hell of a lot. I don’t know what is worse, the French who can’t ski and insist on teetering down a red run entirely unpredictably and out of control; or the French who can ski and do so as if it is their God-given right to straightline everything equally as out of control.

4. Chairlifts

As a boarder, the anxiety that grips me when I approach the top of a chairlift is similar to how I imagine running full pelt at a wall feels. Only one foot is strapped in, I don’t trust myself to be able to glide off like the slick ESF instructors. It’s a case of strap your other foot in, or take the entire population of the ski resort out when you bail at the top.

5. Queues

So, it’s half term, and the queue for the smallest, slowest, shittiest lift is about half a mile long. You can only get about two runs in in two hours, you can hear Janice from Doncaster announcing that she is feeling the effects of last nights’ dodgy steak tartare (speaking of runs) and everywhere you look there is some overtly British family cladded in the brightest ski gear they could find in Snow and Rock. The cherry on the top here is the oblivious, goggle line-faced, middle-aged couple ramming into the back of your £380 board with their sub-standard rental skis….. don’t you just LOVE brits abroad.

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6. White-out

So, crucial ingredient in a successful ski resort is snow – but nobody actually ever wants it to snow when they’re skiing. You can’t see your hand in front of your face, but you stupidly make the decision to go out anyway. It’s chilly on the old cheeks, so you pull up your buff, this then steams up your goggles, making visibility even worse than it already is. Chairlift rides are cold, wet, long, cold, boring, wet, and did I mention cold? Making your way down the piste takes more concentration than you gave in any exam you ever sat in your entire life, as everything blends into white. For all you know you started the top of the run in Tignes and you could be finishing in bloody Japan. Imagine skiing drunk and blindfolded and you’ve probably got the idea. That bump you just hit? Could have been a small child, could have been a rogue mountain goat, or it could have been a block of cocaine, who knows.

7. Skiers/Snowboarders

Like cat and dog, for some unknown, ancient history reason, we are sworn enemies. If a skier sees a snowboarder dying on the side of the piste – there is a good 60% chance that skier would not stop. Shocking new research shows that snowboarders are, generally, paid less than skiers. If a group of skiers approach a snowboarder, he is well within his rights to issue a pre-emptive strike as self defence. If I had a euro for everytime one of my guests described me as a ‘gay on a tray’ or awkwardly grimaced everytime I revealed I snowboard, I would be drinking unlimited aperol spritz at Folie Douce every lunchtime for the rest of the season. Personally, I am hoping to end this apartheid and campaign for equal rights for boarders. (In all seriousness though – what did a snowboarder ever do to a skier to piss them off so much?)

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8. The carrying

I’m not going to lie here – I have it easy. I have my nice comfy snowboard boots and my lightweight board, and I’m all set. But why does the walk to the lift feel so far? Is it the altitude that is making me feel like someone has a plastic bag over my head? Am I really this unfit? Why is my clothing so bulky? How am I sweating so much when its minus bloody 6??? and WHY is this skier walking SO SLOW in front of me? Oh, the joys.

 

 

 

Chalet Girl & False Advertising

So, out here, a joke amongst us actual seasonnaires is the false advertising that is chalet girl. It’s time someone took it upon themselves to set the record straight here – and that person is going to be me.

All of the following is somewhat misleading (absolute bullshit)

First things first, I feel that the most ludicrous scene in the entire film is where Kim’s wonderful guests take her with them in the helicopter to the top of the slopes for champagne and canapes. Kim, dream on love. These people do not exist – in reality she would not be allowed within 100 feet of a guests’ bloody helicopter unless it was to run up with Petronella’s fur headband that she had devastatingly left behind. Some of my hosts have only just about managed to get a tip from guests, let alone a helicopter ride.

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Also is the mere fact that she got the job based on no experience and no cookery course – sadly, it’s just a tad more competitive than that in reality. (For example some of the hosts out here have paid more than £1,000 in advance to the season just for a cooking course.)

Secondly, I seem to recall the girls in the film having something ridiculous like a three week period where the guests aren’t in the chalet – this does not happen in reality. Trust me – if there was a property vacant, you would be moved elsewhere to continue the graft, not laying around in a luxury chalet throwing parties every night.

On that note – if you even DARED to SPEAK the word party in a chalet, let alone get naked in the hot tub, you. would. be. fired. (Here I come Chalet Gatwick) Plus, you spend so much time in the chalets tidying up and dealing with complaints anyway that you don’t want to spend any longer in them than absolutely necessary.

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Also, don’t expect to become an Olympian out here. If you find the time and energy amongst all of the work to train and ride hard enough to win a slopestyle competition then please do come and find me and I will personally present you with a flying pig.

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Okay, that’s the lies out of the way, now we can turn to what actually happens out here.

For the first month, at least, you will be making amazing new friends, getting free stuff thrown at you, and, admittedly, not having a fucking clue what you’re actually doing in your job, but, we are all in the same boat. (Smile and wave, smile and wave)

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You will also get some creepy guests. For some reason, when on holiday, people lose all social filter and treat you as if you are literally an added extra for their own personal enjoyment. Whilst I’m not recommending you pour boiling hot tea over their crotch, it is something you will have to deal with at some point during a season so it’s probably best you get practising your ‘get the fuck away from me’ polite laugh.

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Surprisingly, you will also meet some dainty females in tight black outfits and fur who actually have the physical ability of a rugby forward (lesson learned in the queue to the chairlift). These females do in fact have a tendency to be called something-ella and should be treated with more caution on the slopes than Olympic downhillers.

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Finally, the big one, the romance. You will, more than likely, fall for someone out here. Combine breath taking scenery with new, attractive and interesting people and you have got yourself the perfect rom-com. But seriously, I was told before I came out here by someone who had previously completed a ski season about this mysterious thing called ‘mountain love’ and I brushed it off, but it is real. I can’t promise you all that you will find your very own Ed Westwick but I can tell you that there are likeminded people in the mountains, one of which you might just find yourself falling for.

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The important thing to remember out here, during the highs and lows, during the loving and the hating is the fact that having a shit time out here beats having a shit time at home.

 

 

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Blizzard Blues

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So I’ve never really been a homebird, I’ve never experienced homesickness, but now I’ve found myself sat on my lonely bottom bunk crying into my laptop screen listening to really shit, depressing pop songs.

I miss my dog. I miss the beach, I miss the summer.

This outburst comes after spending my evening off dealing with a broken cooker in a chalet that caters for 15 and then walking through the blizzard that is the French Alps right now.

I’m fragile, needy, cold and I am in need of warmth & canine attention.

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like, seriously, my heart physically hurts when I look at pictures of her….

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When I first announced that I was going to complete a ski season at the dinner table (which is the home of many of my announcements) my parent’s faces displayed looks of shock, disbelief, concern and mild boredom – they are pretty used to me making various announcements at said dinner table.

“Aren’t you more keen on spending six months somewhere slightly…. warmer?” Admittedly, I am a beach bum, beginner surfer, absolute sun-worshipper and keen coastal photographer. So, naturally, the thought of me spending six months in the cold, inland mountains worried my parents a lot – but how I do love to prove people wrong.

I still wouldn’t say I’m a homebird, (cue loud out-of-tune singing of Nelly Furtado’s I’MMM LIKE A BIRRRRDDD I’LL ONLY FLY AWAYYYYY) but there are certain things I need in life to keep me sane, being predominantly warmth, sand, sea & dogs. Don’t get me wrong, I feel alive, free and amazing up here in the mountains – but not so much when the blizzard closes in and the sky is nothing but a mass of grey-white, heavy nothingness. I find myself dreaming of hot days where my hair gets bleached by the sun and my skin turns brown, being able to walk around barefoot and barely clothed.

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I also miss driving – I complain about it enough when I’m at home and petrol literally sucks the money from my bank account but it’s generally the feeling of freedom, I am a lover of the open road, a lover of travelling to wherever it takes me. Happiness for me is on the road, windows down, dog in the passenger seat, with sand between my toes and my hair wild, with only a map and a vague idea of where I want to end up.

I guess that’s the good thing about transfer days – it gets me out of resort onto the open road for a few hours, and stops me from going Jack-Nicholson-batshit-crazy in this snowstorm.

 

 

 

 

And That’s When I Felt Like Quitting

 

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I’m not gonna sugar coat it, last week was shite. Returners warned me, managers warned me, just about EVERYONE warned me….about the December struggle, and the January blues, and I laughed it off, I thought it was a myth, but jesus fucking holy Christ, they are no joke. It was a non-stop week of fuck ups and complaints with a brief, delirious interval for New Year which saw me accidentally locking myself in the bathroom, wrapped in my duvet with absolutely nothing on underneath, vomiting my liver up. It was a fantastic evening. I was even described as a ‘beautiful, catastrophic greek goddess” by one of my flatmates. What an image.

But seriously, the blues hit you hard. I was stressed to my eyeballs, one guest in hospital, 6 getting their skis stolen, all of them having a whinge about something or other, cancelling restaurant reservations and moving lessons around left right and centre, not to mention my lesson providers managing to fuck up themselves not once, not twice but THREE times in a week. My mum and sister were also out here during this shit show of a week and I saw them a handful of times where I was mostly too tired/preoccupied to string a sentence together and the conversation was between them two as I spent 90% of the time frowning at my phone with the arrival of the latest (bad) news. However, we did manage to spend their final evening together sat in the medical centre – earlier in the day I decided to completely nail myself on a red run and then had to half snowboard/half walk down the iciest, bumpiest black. (despite the shit week this wasn’t actually a suicide attempt.)

As a rep, you are expected to be capable of doing 30 different jobs, answering questions from both other staff members and every guest who happens to see you in uniform, oh, and you are also expected to be in three places at once. A shining example being Head Office deciding to spring the news on us late last night that they wanted clips for social media filming ASAP today…..Mate, it’s a Wednesday – do you know what I have had to do today? Try breakfasts for 3 chalets, welcome packs for 30 people, hot tub checks at 3 chalets (on the other side of the resort) and then put frozen croissants and pain au chocolats out ready for tomorrow at another 4 different chalets. And you want us to squeeze in some shots of us skipping about in the snow acting like everything is fine and dandy? In reality I have spent my morning enthusiastically snatching up a dishcloth that had been used to wipe up baby sick and on my knees scrubbing the depths of an oven shit scared that I was going to set the fire alarm off at 7.30am because something was stuck to the bottom and causing smoke. But oh no, SURE I’ve got a bloody spare hour to film myself joyfully making a snowman. (Take your social media and shove it.)

But, not all weeks are bad weeks, and not all days are bad days. Tomorrow, my day off, will be spent with a beautiful lie in and some snowboarding in fresh snow, so I think for now I can put the violin away and get a grip, we’re all in the same boat out here and have to take the rough with the smooth, but I will never underestimate the sheer hard work that is Christmas and New Year week ever again.

This week, on the other hand completely, has been the absolute dream. Apart from today (From here on out known as wobbler Wednesdays) this week has seen me neck 5 shots on our bar crawl with some hilarious guests, whilst wearing a helmet, obviously. (Safety first – see proof below). It has also seen me find a friend in a girl my age holidaying with her dad, and sit and have a couple of relaxed beers in my chalets rather than wanting to run and hide from the guests because I have yet more bad news.

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Other than that, a chance encounter (matching on tinder – all about that modern day romance) with the mystery guy right from the beginning of the season slightly confused things, and some weird news from home sent me into deep contemplation (and excessive drinking) but Mr. Situationship has stayed a constant throughout this entire ordeal and I find myself getting more confused by my feelings every day, the old Holly (pre-getting heart ripped out) would have jumped loyally into his arms and prepared herself to be his forever, now I run away from any serious feelings I have because as far as I’m concerned it’s all going to end in tears. Will I see every male as an absolute twat now? This is a whole new realm of uncertainty, how can you tell a genuinely nice person from someone who couldn’t care what happens to you? Before I could talk confidently and openly about my feelings and now I feel like I’m being choked whenever the subject comes up. It’s amazing what one person and their lies can do to your whole personality.

To seal all of this off, I have just received confirmation from my previously-straight-now-lesbian housemate, that all men, are in fact, twats.

Mystery solved. Happy New Year.

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New Year, Same Old Fears

2017, you came around fast! Probably a good job with the way 2016 was going. I know you’re all probably thinking this blog is going to be about what I’m going to do in 2017 with my lifestyle, diet, hair, travels, appearance, attitude. The truth is, and this probably applies to all of us, no matter how recently you’ve signed up to the gym, we’re going to do fuck all.

I’m constantly evolving, but I can’t help the set backs. With the turning of the New Year inevitably comes time spent reflecting. I’d be a liar if I said there wasn’t a brief one minute of panic that hits me every day, where i am crippled by the fear that anyone I ever meet will lie to me in the darkest of ways, use me, and then just leave my life without a trace – but this is getting easier, I’m slowly realising that not everyone is a manipulative psychopath and some people are, god forbid, actually quite nice.

The events of last year, albeit not all bad, were rounded off with the most incredible New Year surrounded by genuine, smiley, lovely, new people in my life. I couldn’t think of a better way to gently (forcefully) usher 2016 firmly out of the door. My point here is a quick one – no matter how far away we run from our demons, they will still haunt us – but personally I think this is a good thing, because it reminds us what mistakes we should never make again.

Despite the stresses of dealing with the general public out here (today is my day off and I received a phonecall at 8.15am because someone needed the number for the medical center….. all the important numbers are plastered on the walls of the chalets, PLASTERED.) I am the happiest, most carefree I’ve been in a while (and skint.)

My brief but profound point here, is that the turning of a New Year is brilliant, and we should all be open to evolution and growth and reinvention, but we also shouldn’t forget what the previous year taught us.

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