And that is that. Is that. Is that.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t get a plane out of there any earlier…

 

Clean-up: Done. Heading Home.

Goggle tan: check. Avoid aids: check. Ski season: just.

So few of us remain: we can get the plane. That’s right. The plans to get a whole, entire coach back to London, were left in scuppers when management realised that loyalty is a thing of the past, personal responsibility is over-rated, and most people just don’t give a damn. Not about themselves, nor about anyone else. Bit harsh.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t get a plane out of there any earlier with the rest of the deserters, so had to stay behind and claim a sense of self-worth – scathingly slagging-off those who managed to abandon the barren mount and bus it home to sanity.
So here I am, dust-pan in hand and brushing the battered, cracked and filthy wreck before me. This is perhaps the oldest chalet standing, ever, and it shows as Rob and myself cleanse it of six-months collection of grunge. We take our time, knowing full well that there are not enough people to stick to individual chalets. Once we’ve cleaned this one another will be allocated: one closer to management; one where we will be seen taking our 40 minutes break every hour and one where the culmination of empty beer bottles will be easily noted. Up here, up the mountain: Homes under the Hammer and Countdown, Kronenbourg and Marlboro are our saving graces from anti-bacteria and Jif.

We have our breaks and then we get back to it. It took me 3 days to scrub the pans (s-wanky accent: ‘they must be back to Ikea standard, George’). Ikea pans?!! Its amazing how many can accidently fall in the bin when you know they’re about to need scrubbing. Four. In a day. I’m not sure how that many can unintentionally go missing but there you go. Tragic.

No one likes cleaning. It’s crap. It’s not what a ski season is about… but. If you piss off home you know that… So, yea, anyway… I’ll clean your frothing crust knowing full well that I’m loyal to my mates, want to actually finish the season, and that I am not a … Not that I feel any ill-feeling towards them.

So I climb on the plane knowing that I made it. I did a ski season. And I don’t have to do another. Ever. Done. Kaput. And now… to ikea top buy some proper pans. Am I hell! In the words of Mohammed Al Fayed: ‘Arrods’.

I’m signing off my season with a smile on my face and a nod in my step. There were some pretty tough times, yes; but I got to the end… if only… just to finish… this bloody blog.

Le Chef de Party? Winning. At. Life.

 

And so now onto the next section of ‘The Bloating Blogger’. Trust me: it’s gonna involve booze.

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