This morning I was able, just about, to just get out of bed. Those one-gram paracetamols seem to be doing the trick and although I look like an off passion-fruit, I can – it seems – get out of bed all by myself.
I shuffle towards the bathroom and as I shut the door behind me I hear alarm three go off in my bedroom. Thats gonna annoy the girls. Eeehn. I pull the lever up above the tap and turn it about 5 degrees to the left (any more and you’re burnt; any less – freezing) and pull the knob up to set the shower off. I edge around the curtain whilst gingerly climbing into the bath, stepping on the fluffy grime at its base. It really is… fucking disgusting. I keep washing it out but its grimmer than a leprechaun’s armpit. I arch a little to step under the tepid trickle. As I do so the shower curtain catches my thigh and sucks its way up the whole of my right side… so bloody clingy it’s insane. It’s fucking rank. All that lies between me and this cold plastic is a vacuum of stank human grease.
It’s morning in Meribel and I’m leaning into the sink, toothbrush at go, and I catch “what the fuck” in the mirror. I look down at my side… that bruise really is going for it. Considering my hip’s feeling much better this thing is getting out of hand. I turn the toothbrush off and hear the alarm still going. “They’re not gonna be pleased”, I smirk to myself, turning the key and departing our rotten, carpeted shower-closet. I’m changed and out and in the van.
Breakfast goes well. I’ve got help in the way of Dexter – his chalet isn’t booked this week so instead of seven-free days he’s gotta put up with me. He was brilliant last night and is making my life much easier – he’s a good laugh too… which is short for “we’re drinking too much”. But not during breakfast. We try to behave. Although on Sunday our managers came in and caught Rob plating up Heinz baked beans which are most definitely not allowed for in the budget. Lads. Beans Lads.
On “lads with beans”: I’m thinking of starting a challenge. It involves – to make it fair – 30cm of baguette filled with 15 rashers of bacon. The idea being we time how long it takes each of us to finish (girls welcome too of course) and we’ll have a leader board and the person who finishes highest wins a prize (blatantly involving booze) and the one who finishes with the worst time gets a forfeit (probably involving naked skiing… lets face it). If you’re coming to Meribel then get involved. In the challenge – not necessarily naked skiing… that’s quite dangerous and, one suspects, illegal.
Anyway… dinner service went well tonight except Rob got pissed off with me, again. And then there was the issue with the Cointreau.
Rob was pissed off with me because apparently I told him to ‘fuck off’. Now I better be careful because he reads these… but I told him to do that because he was being a grumpy dickhead. So it was fair enough really. But ‘apparently’ Rob “doesn’t like being spoken to like that”. Maybe that’s because Rob has sensitivity issues and needs to get a grip. Haha. How d’you like that…
And then Cointreau. So the new executive chef decided to come and take a few ‘non-essential’ ingredients the other day. But instead of doing that he took the Cointreau which is only really essential if you have a dish on the menu called ‘Mandarins with Cointreau’ which, of course, Adam and I both know… I do. So I wasn’t best pleased… and my resort manager had to pick said Cointreau up from down the mountain and save the day again. And I got to go out and humorously tell the guests why there was no Cointreau and that it was on its way and it would only be a few minutes… and that was when one of the guests, Jennifer, told me my Pork Belly was the best she’d ever had in her life, which is always ok to hear, I suppose. And then another guest said that she’s stayed with this company over five times and this was by far the best food she’d eaten here. Which is always ok to hear, I suppose.
So that was my day. Rob-gate… ClearTheStartersTooEarly-gate, and why the hell did he take my cointreau?