It's been a very worky weekend, but I have enjoyed it.
It hasn't left much time for blogging, though. Hopefully I will come back and update - my knitting progress, my new books, my TV watching and my return to hot yoga.
It's been a very worky weekend, but I have enjoyed it.
It hasn't left much time for blogging, though. Hopefully I will come back and update - my knitting progress, my new books, my TV watching and my return to hot yoga.
We wait for the lift. We've been waiting a few minutes. It's quite bleak in the vestibule and a French couple are waiting behind us.
The doors open: a family with a buggy and luggage, a man at the back. Nobody moves. The man at the back tries to exit but the man in front of him is not interested in moving. He says, in English, 'Well I can't get out, you'll have to wait.' The man behind him gently protests, in French-accented English, to no avail. A few seconds of muttering ensue.
The doors close on this unfortunate tableau.
Moments later, they reopen. Frustrated Frenchman tries again to leave, Rude Englishman tells him he 'should have taken the fucking escalator'. Something in me goes ping.
Me: oh do you need help! Please, let me help! *rushes forward and grabs suitcase and huge bag of pampers from Rude Man before he can react*
Rude Man: I don't want to get out
Me: I know you don't, but he does
Rude Man: Well he could have taken the fucking escalator
Me: And you could be less rude
Surprisingly, this cows Rude Man, who retrieves his belongings and gets back in the lift. In the brief interim, Frenchman has exited, so all seems well. The doors close on him and his stoic wife and children.
Moments later, the doors open again. Rude Man's humiliation deepens and he repeatedly and helplessly jabs the button for the floor he is on. 'There are only two levels,' I say, 'the one you came from and this one'. 'But there are three buttons!' he replies. He's not wrong, but it is quite clear that this is the floor they are meant to be on. They exit the lift. He stalks away, muttering 'Go fuck yourself' at me, but quietly, and from a distance. His wife and children follow.
'Have a great day!' I call after him. We laugh. The French couple laugh. We all board the lift and get on with our days.
The only trouble with exchanges like this is, I fear he will be utterly horrible to his wife and children for the rest of the day.
Also, one day I'm going to get punched.
I feel very accomplished. No idea what else to put on for the next round, though.
Anyway, by the end of Monday I was deeply regretting booking a trip. I was very fed up, and not finding the other staff overly friendly (well duh…they'd only met me the day before, and we'd been up all night on the coach together), and feeling pretty sorry for myself. So I drowned my sorrows in a vat of red wine, and had to ski the next day with the dehydration that represents the worst hangover symptom I ever suffer from. This was more of a problem than it sounds - I didn't want to drink too much water and risk having to wee in a ceramic hole halfway up a mountain whilst clutching my jumpers, t-shirt and jacket to me in a vain attempt to keep them from soaking up the waste products of previous weak-bladdered skiers; but on the other hand I had the whole dry-mouth, whirly-world thing going on. Thankfully (!) by this point the bus had completely broken down, so we had to walk to the ski lift - 20 minutes uphill - by which point I was feeling more human. From Tuesday on we had the most glorious sunny weather, and it didn't break until Saturday when we had a little more light snow.
Honestly, I could wax lyrical about my trip for pages. I could tell you about the competitive kids who were always cutting me up. I could tell you about the instructor ("My very compliments to you Sally…Sally ees very nice person, yes, you kids agree with me, yes?"). I could tell you about skiing in the slalom race and coming 3rd in my group and winning the bronze medal. I could tell you about the copious amounts of red wine we quaffed every night. I could mention the night at the pizza place, the morning in Bardonecchia watching boarders attempt the Olympic half-pipe (and one very athletic skier). I could even, if you really wanted, give you a blow-by-blow account of the 12 hour coach journey back, and how we missed our ferry because the girls were too squeamish to use the hole-in-the-ground toilets at the service stations and insisted on queueing up for the disabled loo. But I'm not going to. I'll save it all for next year's trip.
Fell down a diario hole reading through my 2006 blog. I was very funny, obviously, but also, wow, life as a teacher was wildly different. Also, that 90 minute run, I can now complete in well under 5 minutes. I might time myself next week, just for comparison.
After the 2006 inspection visit with another school, I didn't come back until 2009, when I brought my school two Easters in a row. Then I brought my new school in 2018, when I took control of the ski trip, and then the infamous 2023 trip that involved the 58 hour coach journey. I'm delighted to find we're going to be staying opposite the hotel we went to for the last two trips, it's very near to a lift. I'm excited about being able to ski to town level and do actual apres. I'm hoping there will be some sort of seasonal ski show. I'm desperate to ski all the way to France and back in a day. And, of course, I can visit my favourite cake shop down the mountain.
Here are the pictures. It took some digging.

An occasional series that I might also title, 'Things in my house that are basically rubbish but I am a borderline hoarder and cannot bring myself to throw them out'. The idea is to memorialise such things here and then bin them for good.
Boy, do I have a treat for you. I present - some golden craft glitter that I bought in the 90s.
As you can see, there is not much left and it has lost its lid. Why do I still give it house room? Well, for one thing, these are the OG microplastics and how one safely disposes of these things now is anybody's guess. For another, I have some fond memories of it.
I used to use this as a glitter eyeliner, which makes me want to cry now, and not just as a contact lens wearer. How did I not go blind? I also used to rub cocoa butter on my limbs and then sprinkle it liberally over myself before going out clubbing - I have a vivid memory of doing this before going to some 70s club round the back of Oxford Street, when I wore my PVC dress and we took many pictures which Justine never had developed. The next day, the guy from work I'd sort of been seeing picked me up from work and took me on the infamous worst date of my life (I am bound to have written about it on here before) which involved driving from Brent Cross to the Dartford Bridge and back, and that was it; I had managed about two hours of sleep and was still covered in glitter, because my house didn't have a shower and I hadn't had time for a bath. It was our last date, obviously. I like to think some of that glitter stayed on his passenger seat for the rest of the time he owned the car, it would be some small restitution.
The last time I can remember using the glitter like this was on this night in Ibiza in 2002, when we went to see Dave Pearce at Eden -
Shortly after this picture was taken, the front barman picked me up for another photo, which sadly I can't find (I think it involved some unflattering leg angles though, honestly, at my current age and weight, I cannot believe I could find any picture of me from 2002 unflattering); when he put me down again he was mystified as to what had happened to his arms, which were covered in a mixture of this glitter and Lush's King of Skin. Good luck getting that off, mate.
That creepy barman on the right (the one I am leaning away from) grabbed me and tried to kiss me when I was the last person in the bar one night, so grim: an experience that lightly taints the pictures from this trip.
Anyway. I won't use this as a cosmetic anymore, now that I respect my skin and eyes; I did use some of it for making photo frames, back when I used to do that; half of it spilled in the top drawer of the filing cabinet; what possible use could I have for what is left?
It is pretty, though.
31. What did you do on your birthday?
I got my nails done, then drove into Bristol and got softserve and a babka from a favourite bakery. Mr Z made curry and flatbreads for tea. Other than that, I packed for my holiday, worked on my metanalysis and was quiet at home. I don't often have birthdays at home so that made a change but it was also quite muted because we were into Mother Z's final fortnight, though we didn't know it, so Mr Z spent much of the day round there.