The last few days have been a real, undiluted, agonising swedge. On Friday morning I couldn’t physically get out of bed. It took me about ten minutes of doing five centimetre, decrepit, doddering, push ups. A few attempted rolls and some pathetic mewling before I decided I was getting up whether I injured myself further or not. It was now about 7.15 (our pick-up is at ten-past) I went for it – my body didn’t like it – I thrust my chest up, swung my legs off the side of the bed and sat, breathless, helpless, old. What a dick. What a category A tosser. If anyone could see me now they’d be forgiven for thinking Keith Richards had just had a stroke.
It takes me a moment to get my breath back and the mental strength to finish the job. I stand. My mirror is on the wall two feet away. I look at myself and close my eyes in a mixture of affliction and self pity – it really is rattlingly pathetic. I open them again, a breath, ‘lets get the fuck on with it’. I struggle to the bathroom – attempt at brushing my teeth – and then hurry as best I can up the fourteen steps to the lounge, and then through the front door and down the eleven to street level and then up to the waiting (long awaiting) van. The others are there – looking around at me – both a feeling of sympathy and ‘get the fuck on with it’ coming at me in waves as I turn behind to attempt at grabbing and pulling the handle for the sliding van door. It doesn’t go well. I’ve broken my ribs – I know it – but there’s nothing anyone can do. Gulp it up – get on with it. We are the self-preservation society. Off we go.
I am joined by the new executive chef for Meribel. He’s here to help all the chalet hosts deal with their everyday issues, to sort the logistics of food ordering and accounts, and to step in when one of us breaks four legs and a spine. I’m only a bruised hip and a few ribs (so he’ll probably help with breakfast and then piss off). We get breakfast out the way – I’m not so keen on someone taking over my stove and sending plates of their food from my kitchen but I’ve gotta suck it up because to be honest I don’t even feel able to make lemon-fucking-drizzle cake at the moment. I manage it though and it looks good.
And so with service over, Adam- the exec chef – starts pulling everything out of every cupboard and rearranging it – which is great and I appreciate the help but probably wasn’t best timing because now on Saturday night – having had an ok, if slightly dodgy Friday night (The Pork was a bit touch and go and Adam thought my Tropical Eton Mess looked a bit of a mess: well; yes) – I’m in pain and can’t stretch or bend and I don’t know where anything is. So I’m a bit up shit’s creek.
But I went and got my prescription today. I got anti-inflammatories (one pill twice a day) plus a gel and then something called ‘Efferalgam’ which is a 1g paracetamol (I’d never heard of 1g – they’re good 😊). So after a four hour ‘nap’ in the middle of the day I got up (actually get out of bed and feel like I might be able to do a service without ending up an inadequate and paltry mess of a anthropoid on the floor.
There was a bit of a fuck up with the brownies (I still can’t count and thought 11 meant thirteen which it doesn’t… it makes 11) and I had to change the sizes a little – but all in all the guests were very complimentary on the food and it is a shame to see this lot go (thats not a dig at the last lot but you can take it to mean what you like). We’ll look forward to inviting in and looking after the sixteen that arrive today and for myself: I look forward to my day off – and a time in the future when I feel I can go and do what I’m here for – ski. Hopefully this time I won’t make a dunderhead wally of myself and end up with Efferalgan mark 2.
I wonder if there’s such a thing as two-gram paracetamol.