Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Skiing when you're higher than a jet propelled sputnik is rather nice.
Anti-inflammatories and ibuprofen will do that to you. Moguls and ice? AKA I'm-going-to-die-if-I-try-to-go-down-here-on-two horizontal-planks? I'm chilled man, so totally chilled.
On the last day of skiing, we did a triathlon.
Eating, drinking, smoking.
Needless to say everyone at our chalet thought we were lame. Including our new best mates Uncle Keith and Aunty Sheena.
On our new best mates:
They were highlarious. For one, they drained the wine at dinner and knocked back the toffee vodkas at apres ski like a pair of pissed crickets. They also took us skiing up the highest mountain, guided me down a red slope, while I schvitzed beads of fear, while sharing their pearls of wisdom on technique.
Apres Ski is the business.
In the sun. Amongst chalet owning poshalites drinking Pellegrino water and talking botox in Monaco. Then moving onto a live outdoor band where one dude wore undies on the outside: cowsuit with pink lacy thong that exposed his crack to the -1 degree elements.
We won pub quiz.
And pub crawl. We probably even won the pub. We are such troopers.
I cry a little more each visit, every time I leave Heathrow. Like a girl.
It's been a long time since I felt like this about somebody. The last month has been one of the happiest I've been in ages.
Coming home after a month away...
is a foreign experience. It feels foreign to be back. And I haven't even moved yet. It's a surreal feeling, when you start noticing things about your home town in the taxi ride from the airport, things that you forgot about.
A mate of mine had a cigarette while I was away.
This is big. She's possibly my only mate who managed to go two years completely clean, no sneaky puffaroos behind the shed, clean. Cleaner than a nun armed with a bulk pack of Mr Muscle.
Can't say who it is, she'll bite my non-existent testicles off using her molars.
'Fuck off. I'm going to have another one right now.'
'No you're bloody not. I'm warning you.'
'I am. Right now. I enjoy it.'
'Did I sound like this when I tried to convince myself I was fine when I tried to quit?'
'Fuck off. It's fun. And I deserve it.'
'Muzzle your mouth shut for chrissakes. You. You sit tight until I see you this week. Goddit?'
You try writing a sex column on your laptop using the retractable tray, with a seat in the upright position and a seatbelt on, while the dude in seat 29E ogles over your shoulder as you write about vajayjays.
He was marking a paper on sustainable development. Prude.
I have foot problems
Am I 90? Because that's the issue affecting my tendons – my high-step feet. A podiatrist is going to make a lot of money off me when he has to craft 20 pairs of in-soles for my shoes. To 'retrain' my tendons not to crush my bones.
Did you see that? I said that so flippantly, but it gets excruciatingly sore, and has been for years when I walk in certain shoes – flats might I add. Skiing clearly just exacerbated the problem.
Fuck. I'm not ready to wear Green Cross strops with woolly socks just yet. If I deck my shoes out with soles I should be able to avoid that for another 50 years.
I really miss him. I feel like my right arm is missing.
PS: On the blower = on the phone.