On Saturday I wake up at 0500 and still under the influence of the Zimovane from the night before I leave home, drag my suitcase to the nearest tube station, find out it’s closed for the weekend, walk to the next one, share a tube with a few dozen ethnic immigrants sleeping on their seats in their way to the meat market (maybe some factory?), get to the train station, meet Matty and Nicole, run to catch the train to the airport…
…a two-hour drive later and we’re at Serre Chevalier, so we drop our stuff and go for a walk and in that walk we go to the supermarket and I buy a few cans of beans and lentils and some packed meat and some apples and on the way back we see this ginger guy who’s wearing a proper skiing uniform and I ask Matty, are his legs really that big or are these trousers padded and Matty says that for him to be wearing this uniform he must be a really good skier so consequently his legs must be pretty big too.
That’s when I first get upset for not having started skiing when I was 5 and when I get over myself (whilst I’m getting over myself actually) we go to a shop to pick up our boots and skis and the guy working there is trying to make me take some boots that are tight – insanely tight – and I request the next size up because I don’t want my feet bleeding through the day and he tries to make me understand that bigger boots will compromise my skiing ability and I try to make him understand that I don’t give a fuck and I’ll be in the gym instead of on some piste by day two anyway.
But anyway, the worse part of the day is yet to come. A bit later, at dinner I become aware of an odd predicament that the chalet where we’re staying has set up. I don’t know what kind of networking / swingers / group sex business they’re running parallel to this, but they’ve had this idea where all the guests are put in groups and these groups have to eat together at the same table (and socialise obviously) for the rest of the holiday. Every breakfast and dinner.
So our group includes two other couples whose names I really can’t remember, but I’m going to call them John A, John B, Emma! and Emma.
Now I don’t know if this is because I’m completely anti social and miserable, but I don’t really have a great interest with becoming friends with these people. I’m on holiday with my friends and I’m happy enough hanging out and talking to them, you know? However, to my complete horror and disdain all other six people at the table (Matty and Nicole + The Couples) are fucking dying to befriend each other. Not that I’m a cunt or anything, but I put this down to the fact that all these people are straight couples, have been together for more years than they wish to remember, are bleeding bored of their respective partners, and jump at the opportunity to engage is mild and inoffensive flirtation with people in the exact same demographic.
During this torturous dinner Matty and Nicole chat to The Couples, I sit there repeating “please don’t ask me any questions, please don’t ask me any questions” like a mantra in my head, The Couples tell stories nobody wants to hear, I sit there nodding and smiling to all the wrong bits, Matty and Nicole try to include me in the conversation, eventually The Couples realize I’m a special boy and nobody addresses me anymore, like I’m not even there, like I’m a 7th portion of quiche the waiter brought by mistake, like a spat out piece of cake.
It’s going to be a long week.
PS. I'll also post pictures of the holiday later.