Master Chef at half eight
05.02.08, 7:32 pm
Post-holiday entries are really hard to write, because absolute boat-loads of stuff has happened, and you�re aware that you can�t really be arsed to document it all but feel you should because, in your life, a whole 7 days of actual entry-worthy events is actually grounds for a national holiday. Ooh, I�ve found a lovely new font in Microsoft Word! It�s called Book Antiqua and is loads better than Arial, the reliable but predictable favourite. Much like the tag-line on the bag of onion seeds that I saw in Tesco last night (�Onion � reliable favourite�)
Anyway, back to this bloody holiday that needs to be written about. Thankfully I didn�t die in a plane crash, or from altitude sickness, or from a plummeting gondola, or from a broken chairlift � just a small sample from my list of height-phobia-related-worries. The six of us (me, James, James�s parents, James�s sister and James�s sister�s boyfriend) spent a week crammed into a tiny cabin in the ski resort of La Clusaz. This cabin was the size of a rabbit hutch and, according to the brochure, had three bedrooms. These �bedrooms� turned out to be 1) Tiny bedroom with double bed, which went to James�s parents 2) The living room/kitchen, by means of a fold-out sofa bed that went to James�s sister and boyfriend and 3) Bunkbeds in the corridor connecting the two, which ended up being mine and James�s. Added to that, we had to the bathroom and toilet doors practically on our pillows. Cosy nights of sleep were not in abundance.
Added to this was the fact that it was incredibly dark in the corridor and bedroom, owing to there being no windows. I decided to sleep in the top bunk, because the beds were effectively made by hammer-wielding monkeys and resembled two cereal boxes on twigs, and I didn�t fancy being squashed in the night by six�5� of boy. The first two nights I was so exhausted that I slept okay, and the next three nights, owing to the pitch black and being a foot from the ceiling, I proceeded to have hideous nightmares about being trapped. For the first two I dreamt that I was trapped in a tiny dark tunnel and couldn�t get out, and woke up both times yelling about not being able to get out, which, of course, woke everyone else up too. The third night I dreamed I was caught in a landslide (with James over on solid ground, trying to help me), apparently did more shouting, then apparently started rocking the bed back and forth (guess that�s where the landslide bit came in), and then decided to hurl myself off of the top bunk onto the floor to stop myself from being swept away. This was due to the following:
James in reality: �Hol, Hol, it�s okay, calm down�
James in dream world: �Jump jumpy jumpjump!�
Reality James, who I�d completely freaked out by my bid to squash myself, then grabbed me like I was made of gold and hugged me (quite cute actually, looking back at it), and I turned to him, completely fine and pain-free, and said, �Why are we shaking? Is it an earthquake?� �No, that was just you.� Hideously, everyone was woken up again, and very much enjoyed discussing my idiotic tendencies the next morning. All three nightmares were actually really scary and horrible. Claustrophobia is no one�s friend.
James is off in about six weeks, and just before my birthday, before life likes rubbing your face in already crap situations. We�re both not really talking about it, mainly because there�s nothing that can be done. With things like this, you just have to adjust your routine, and eventually it�s okay. I�m still pretty bloody sad about it though � more than I�m letting on to the boy, which is currently levelling at �a little sad�.
Work is very busy. Indie Chick is off sick at the moment, and we�ve had a suddenl influx of students. I�m a little disillusioned by work at the moment. My cardiology follow-up is on Thursday, and I�m really not looking forward to it. None of my friends who�ve said they�ll ring me have actually rung me. I�m not in a happy place at this point in time. It is, however, Master Chef at half eight.
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