Wedding Blues and Greys

I went to about 30 weddings last year.

Not as a guest (thankfully), but as one of many behind-the-scenes cogs in the 'big day' mega-machine. I can boast to having had a unique 360 degree omnipotent view of 'that' special day: I've witnessed every conflicting human emotion, every possible family rift, every booze-induced confession, nothing is sacred at a wedding - they are without a doubt the most drama-filled events of our lives. Nothing ever runs smoothly, and even if the bride and groom are blissfully unaware of any possible damaging undertone, someone somewhere is (inadvertently or intentionally) on the road to ruining the happiest day of their lives.

I honestly believe that these days (with all the added pressure to look beyond the realms of perfection and be seen to have spent a lifetime's wages on the 'big day') perhaps as few as 1 in 10 brides actually enjoy their wedding days. I've seen brides throwing tantrums about table settings/ flowers/ positioning of guests as soon as they've walked through the doors of the wedding venue/ stately home where I'm setting the scene for all this tension. So many expectations are supposed to be met (if not surpassed), and I think choosing a facade venue in the form of a stately home exacerbates the mounting promise of 'perfection'.

It's not big news that usually, the more money spent on a wedding: the less gratification those paying for it gain. The best wedding I've attended as a guest was for my best friend, two summers ago. I don't know exactly how much money was spent, but it wasn't much and this added to the general excellence of the day. The bride and groom are a designer and photographer, so they pulled in their own skills for all the decoration/ table adornment and personal touches. The afternoon reception was held on the splendid lawn of the bride's parent's home. The evening reception was held a minute's walk away at the local village hall - which had been transformed for the occasion. By getting every family member/friend/ friends of friends to contribute in some way or another, the happy couple had covered every aspect of the wedding for favours and the promise of a jolly good bash.

On a much higher-profile scale, but still endearing and intimately low-key, TV and film actress, Amanda Redman married her long-term beau at my place of work some months back. 200 guests (including the entire cast of New Tricks, Ray Winstone, Shelia Hancock and Lisa Falkner) graced the lawns and got royally sozzled. There was a massive amount of apprehension felt by the staff in the lead-up to the epic day... this being the biggest, most high-profile wedding hosted there to date. In my opinion, the current of stress that rippled amongst the head-honchos was a little unfounded, as the guests were not demanding the stars on a plate: they were polite, obliging and thoroughly respectful. We didn't really know what to expect, but near-on everyone behaved themselves impeccably well.

At times I had to pinch myself: my first customer of the day (at the new outside bar) was Ray Winstone along with a few of the old dogs from New Tricks. Ray asked for a vodka coke, and sent a shiver up my spine as he gave me a smoldering look and said, "thanks babe". I melted. He's literally my favourite British actor... I watched Nil By Mouth over 50 times when I was studying the film for my first dissertation. He's every bit how you'd expect him to be: smooth, witty, sexy and down-to-earth. He's the daddy after all!

His wife, Laura, was stunning - and so sweet to me just because I remembered what they were all drinking so they didn't have to ask. It was bizarre to be listening in to their conversations, I wish I was another step removed, (maybe just hovering above the bar) so that I could absorb everything, but unfortunately, I had work to do. Amanda was lovely, darling. I hear from the wedding planners that she was very nervous and so stressed she couldn't eat anything all day, but this was mainly due to worries that the few spots of rain that landed during the ceremony might lead to a proper down-pour. She needn't have worried: though the weather wasn't perfect - it didn't affect the outdoor setting for the majority of the proceedings.

I imagine that a hell of a lot of money was spent on their day, but it was by no means lavish or excessive. There were a few technical hitches behind the scenes, but I doubt if Amanda will ever know that there was a light sewage flow on the front lawn just hours before her 200 guests made their way to the pagoda or that the caterers temporarily forgot to place sparkling water on the tables for the wedding breakfast. The wedding was a triumph: everyone was at ease and in awe of the setting, the staff were buzzing from being in such company, and they all partied into the small hours without the faintest whiff of anger, resentment or bitchery in the air.

You really couldn't have predicted a bigger contrast to the next wedding I worked at. A bunch of pretentious Londoners who were bickering and complaining as soon as they arrived. There was a palpable tension between the two families and there were a few villains determined to make the weekend as hellish for everyone as possible. I think it was the worst case of bitchiness that I've ever encountered at a wedding. The bride was atrocious (though I can't help thinking that her spitefulness was a knock-on effect from those around her), demanding, from what I could gather, her family are a bit mafia-esque, wielding some special status in the town where they're from. No need to bring those airs and graces with you to the countryside, where all is meek and reserved.

The brides gran was the ring-leader in a gang of plump, miserable older ladies who plotted and moaned at a table in the bar for the entirety of the wedding day. Many tears were shed this weekend, I believe this may not have been the case if the Witches of Eastwick had just kept their mouths shut for one day. It's so selfish to cause such a scene, who's day is this anyway? I honestly can't believe that some people feel the need to vent their anger when so much is at stake. At one point in the evening, a particularly intense conversation between the witches and their other granddaughter results in all involved weeping - the atmosphere in the bar was like a morgue... any new entries swiftly ordered and went back to the dancing at a rapid gait. Things obviously got progressively worse, as two of the brides 'uncles' turned up late and in Batman and Robin costumes. They proceeded to get drunk as quickly as possible and were practically bursting with fight-juice.

The surprise 'event' of the night came from a couple of outside contenders in the 'who can ruin the wedding first' stakes. I'd watched in smug safeness as a man in a kilt and his girlfriend tried to clutch at their remaining grain of sobriety, both gripping the bar for support as they argued about his supposed level of drunkenness at the highly disrespectful time of nine pm. As the only sober party in this equation, I avidly followed the line of argument, the crux of which was about her wish to go home as he's embarrassing her and making a fool out of himself. They're both oblivious to the amount of attention their raised voices are gaining, and she seems to be getting drunker and drunker by the second as she demands shots from anyone who happens to be ordering drinks by the other side of her. They're slurring their words, he looks like he's going to be sick - but it's just a series of burps.

Their friends get involved: he's the man, he shouldn't have to go home, the groom will not allow it! She relays her anguish at them, but they don't care, he's highly amusing, he's one of the lads. Defeated, she tries to show her hurt by turning her back on him as he staggers back to the dance floor. She now swiftly downs another couple of shots and long drinks. Next minute, they're both nowhere to be seen. I hear from my colleague (who is also following this mini-soap-opera) that the couple in question have been booted out by the bride. Doesn't surprise us.

For a few minutes things settle back down into the routine set by the bitchy witches, who now have an extra thing to gossip about. Then, shock horror: the drunk girl has been found with massive wound to the head and covered in scratches and bruises. An equally drunk woman is trying to control the bleeding, repeating that she found the girl outside, that she had run out of a hedge screaming: dripping with blood. As all involved where so drunk, it's hard to fathom if this was a case of domestic violence or, if she just fell over and hit her head on something sharp.

I've seen fights and the odd drop of blood at weddings in the past, but this one had a much more sinister tone to it. The girl was taken somewhere more private, and at this point, the boyfriend arrived... and the wedding planner called for an ambulance. We had to try and remain calm, and divert any unwanted attention away from the incident. Rather impossible when these people appeared to be hounds for gossip and desperate for more woe and terror. The poor bride was livid that they had both come back inside the house, and unfortunately they would remain there for another hour - due to the lateness of the ambulance and then the girl's reluctance to go to hospital.

The police arrived. Not quite sure if they were called separately by one of the guests, or if they were alerted to handle the situation due to the ambulance's lack of attendance. Either way, this exacerbated the drunk man's anger, but strangely it also seemed to sober him up in a flash... maybe it was the guilt setting in? They questioned him in the back bar, as I was loading the glass machine: I heard his full story, my heart was flitting around, I was shaky. What a stressful night, and yet the time passed so slowly. The ambulance arrived before the police left, so they briefed the paramedics. The girl was adamant that she was fine and that she just wanted to go home.

The paramedics insisted that, although it wasn't life-threatening, she needed a few stitches as her skull could be seen - it was a deep wound. Eventually she was persuaded to go in the ambulance, aided by her now shocked-into-sobriety boyfriend. What a relief. Though they'd gone, the aftermath was not pretty. Word had got round the house, everyone was talking about it - everyone seemed to have their own little conspiracy theory about what had happened. Any atmosphere that hadn't already been poached by the witches had now been stolen by the outsiders, the underdogs - never to return. So ever glad I didn't have to serve those hideous people the following morning for breakfast.

I suppose what I'm trying to say, by way of this extreme example of wedding hell is that there is never a dull moment at a wedding, but instead of mainly being entertaining and sometimes heart-warming - they can also bring out the worst in people, regardless of who's special day it is.

Goes to show that money can't buy you love, class, style or grace - and it most certainly can't buy you a well-behaved family.

Nowt Queerer Than Folk

I love people.

They make me laugh a lot. And after an excellent weekend's-worth of people-watching opportunities in London, I was not expecting to pick up yet more eccentric behaviour on the bus home, but oh what a corker!

Katie and I were lucky enough to nab the disabled access seats (second from front for those uninitiated) which give you an extra foot of leg room. Happily settling into our as-comfortable-as-you-can-get-for-a-bus-journey positions we watched in silenced awe as an old lady tried to fight for her right to keep not one but TWO of the priority seats in front of us:

Old lady sits on the isle-side seat, with seat belt done up already, though it's ten minutes till lift off. Big momma lady with boobs as wide as her hips and crazy Afro/frizz hair bounces up the steps, deep takeaway box proudly guarded in both hands. She doesn't even glance down the bus: she wants the front seat. Old lady doesn't want to share with anyone, let alone a forthright young momma with more attitude than Russell Brand on coke.

Big Momma: "I need to sit there, (points to vacant window seat) can you move please?"

Old lady doesn't say anything, doesn't move - just shuffles her feet over so big momma has to squeeze past her very awkwardly. The window seat shakes as big momma forces herself in from a pivoted position. Old lady is leaning out of her seat so much that she may as well be sitting in the isle.

Once the driver is seated, old lady pipes up in defence:

Old Lady: "Excuse me, I booked a priority seat, not half of one!"

Bus Driver: "No, you booked one seat, so you paid for one seat, and that's what you've got."

Old lady mumbles incessantly, there is a bit more shifting from big momma, I assume cross words or maybe even rude words where exchanged... then silence.

I presume either the old lady was racist or she is one of those people who always has to have two seats no matter who wants the other free one.

Needless to say: old lady kept her half-out-of-the-seat position for the whole journey: I am 110% certain that her whole body was ridged with spite and resentment every second of that time.

Grad Bay Hell

I'm two steps from hell, stuck in a charity-fundraising-limbo worse than purgatory.

Three days without a sign-up, they'll be scraping at my back soon and I know who's going to ensure my demise.

The Grad Bay weasel. He's a shifty guy: a Dickensian caricature: part crackhead, part vermin, part jester.

Dancing around in beige slippers, greasy jogging bottoms and novelty t-shirts.

Never content, he prances and sidesteps - circling our pod, baying for someone to make a mistake so he can pounce, jeer and take us down. Or, on an all-too-rare occurrence: a swift karate chop/pat on the shoulder for good behaviour.

His hair is lank and grey-blonde: too much time spent in unhealthy places. His face is shallow; eyes as sallow as saucers.

Weasel sneer, weasel leer... why must you persist in tormenting us? Tiny dull teeth protruding, jutting your chin out to show your pathetic pride.

What pride can you possibly take, in making us wait for a tiny scrap of your wisdom? Wis-doom more like; jaded, resentment-addled deflections.

You were me once. You were scared, confused, unsafe. Only you have the weasel instinct, the thing that twists tight and forces you to beg, beg, beg. Make the sale. Rinse old ladies of their last pension scraps. No, I can't do that.

Actors play other people. You don't have to act any more. You've been promoted to head of the grad bay floor. You witness our amateur dramatic group grappling with the emotion, the tone, the inflection. But you don't care. The targets are not going up, and this affects your pluck.

How long till he shoots to kill? Do I fit the bill? Probably will, if I don't get my fill.

The sooner the cull begins the sooner I will escape the torment. Please let it be me, I've never been fired before. If it's going to happen - this is the optimum time and place. A hot house where nobody expects to thrive, sprout buds and flourish. Best to be cut and displayed outside, not left inside to fester like the grad bay jester.

Chaos with a capital "C"

Arrived in London after a refreshingly pleasant National Express journey hosted by a jolly, wholly unpatronising driver who had who good banter as well as manners. As we made the short crossing from Victoria to Putney Bridge, a sense of excitement embellished the air... the odd spray of Carnival colour dipped and weaved amongst the hum-drum weekend crowds. Maybe I'm just more alert to such hyperbolic statement in apprehension for an event I'm yet to experience: the colour and atmosphere spelling out both a dart of danger and a spell of joy.

Maybe it's just the way London makes me feel. Edgy, yet fully prepared to embrace whatever the city can throw at me today.

After a short stop in Putney to off-load belongings and get changed, we head for the tube to Notting Hill Gate. Helen and I sit next to two Rastas armored up with vuvuzelas hanging from their chests with Caribbean ribbon. The conversation between them was enlightening and amusing. Man 1 was obviously a seasoned carnival-goer, whilst the other (Man 2) was either exceedingly precautionary or a carnival virgin, like me. The conversation started with a bit of light banter:

Man 1: "Why you no got your phone, bro?"

Man 2: "I ain't got no credit, bro!"

Man 1: "Well, what ya gonna do when you get lost? You's scared you gonna get it nicked, innit?"

Man 2: "Nah mate, no point bringing it with no credit - I just got the important things here in this bag."

(He points to a cheap sports bag with a drawer string and two thin string straps, that is pressed to him on the front of his chest like a baby in a sling)

Man 1 laughs.

Man 2: "Couple o' cans o' Guinness, and me jacket, that's all I need."

Man 1: "Ha, couple o' cans o' Guinness! What if they snip here and here." (He gestures thieves cutting the strings of the bag)

Man 2: Well... at least if they do get it... it's only a couple o' cans, eh? And not me phone, camera and wallet!"

Man 1 laughs hysterically.

At this point, Helen and I are barely able to control our giggling, and luckily the doors open. Uh oh, look at the crowds. It's solid all the way up the stairs and the crowd is also just as thick from behind. Man 1 and 2 exuberantly honk their vuvuzelas, they seem to be making their way through the crowd even though it's at stand still. Just as Man 1 gets up to the first set of steps, he turns back on the rest of the masses still getting off the trains, blows his vuvu and shouts:

"GET USED TO IT!"

Priceless.

Notting Hill Carnival is certainly one of a kind. Messy, chaotic, anarchic. I get the feeling that the true heart of the matter is missing (more style over substance), it's as though the cutting loose has taken centre stage and the culture lurks in the background... not quite comfortable to perform in front of such hungry revellers. I don't think the family day is particularly child-friendly, there were times when I felt a little uncomfortable, though this was mainly due to my lack of tolerance in crowded places. Maybe I wasn't drunk enough... but after queueing for Caribbean food in the rain for what felt like and hour and a half my carnival spirit was somewhat diminished by a chill on my back and an empty belly.

Later in the day, the sun made a prolonged appearance and we were able to watch a section of the procession on a less-frequented side street. The procession was exactly as one would expect: vibrant, soulful and melodramatic. Yellow paint was sprayed into the audience, chocolate laced the air as the performers grabbed handfuls of the gooey brown stuff and planted it on their fellow dancers and the unsuspecting audience. (I admit to hiding behind a tree at this point - as good as it smelt, the appearance of chocolate can just as easily resemble a bodily excretion of a much lesser appealing variety.)

But after the procession and the sunshine vanished the mood changed and things felt a bit on the apocalyptic side. Every conceivable corner of every street harboured a mountain of takeaway boxes, chicken bones, drinks cans and smashed glass, rubbish was literally flowing onto the through-fare, god only knows what it must have looked like ten hours later in the unforgiving dawn light. The irony is explicit. I've never really seen Notting Hill without the carnage, but when you look up and see the glorious architecture and wealth... juxtaposed with the boarded up window fronts, tagged cars and messy debris at street-level, it's hard to imagine this district as a highly respectable neighbourhood... where the Hugh Grant yuppie/yucky blockbuster movie was set a few years ago. Where do the residents put their cars for the weekend? Do they dare leave their homes at all?

The rum and ginger I was swigging warmed me from the early-evening chill, but I was ready to voyage back into the 'regular' chaos of the city after the sun disappeared. It was impossible to know where to exit, every route seemed to be teeming with police ready for action. Wild eyed, wobbly legged zombies appeared to be fencing us in. A strange and eerie twilight fixed the scene, I watched the last glint of the sun fade through the obscure window of a tower block which surely marked the divide between well-to-do Notting Hill and its underbelly. The fallout seemed to reach well-beyond the periphery, the roads car-free for what felt like a mile more. Then: over a bridge and we hit civilization again, there's a bus with our name on it. Cocooned by the warm, yet stale aroma of public transport, we breath easy and watch the madness unfold at a staggeringly slow pace. There's a fight at one set of lights, but the police are swift and intervene quicker than any one could imagine.

We realise how exhausted we are. I ditch the rum and ginger and we head home, an early night and a leisurely day of touristy fluff in the morning somewhat more appealing than a convoy into rebellious mayhem.

I think I'm actually getting old.

Enemy On the Door

I'm at war.

I'm at war with the man who guards the door.

He hates me.

Won't let me passed unless I shake my plastic pass,

In his face: what a waste.

He's got the hump - someone please give him the bump!

Then I can get on with my lunch,

But may still need to punch this most terrible grump.

He really seems to care that I don't meet his stare.

But I don't dare: I'm too pressed to care.

Too pressed to care.

Stop with the sneers, it won't win you cheers!

Just let me through, clear of you.

To the door, and on to the call-floor.

To help the poor.

Selling Lives

I am currently in the business of selling lives. Children's lives.

Every ten to fifteen minutes from 1 pm until 9 pm I must try to act my way through a script that is designed to make people part with £18 - a month.

I must tease/manipulate/induce guilt/empathise/cajole people whilst remaining 100% impartial and committed to the cause at hand. Do not deviate. Big Brothers are watching. There's one Big Brother per 'grad bay', though there may be more listening: every call is recorded. We can get fined £5000 is a 'declaration clause' is not tacked on to the beginning and end of every call.

It starts with: "This call may be recorded for training purposes", and ends with something reassuring the caller that we only take £337,000 in admin costs for "calling people like you."

I have to talk to the elderly: the unemployed, the terminally ill, the students, the time-wasters, the insane, those too young to commit, yet eager to answer the phone whilst mummy struggles with the youngest. All walks of life and the others you forget about. The ones everyone forgets about - that's why they're the worst to interrupt as they've been storing up all their jaw-mangling spite just for you because you're the first person insane enough to call them. Not my fault: the system picks numbers at random.

It's not uncommon to talk to the same person three/four times in a day, (partly due to others pressing 'Call Back' when they can't be bothered to record a proper outcome) but as you've already spoken to many faceless voices in between... you're stuck in auto-pilot mode and they get the impression that the bond you formed earlier was a false pretense. Well it was.

And yet the numbers keep coming, and there's barely a moment to regenerate you self-esteem and bolster confidence levels.

Some people here have been 'on the phones' for between 5 to 12 months. On the phones. Reading a script. How is that possible?

I have no desire to be here longer than it'll take me to re-claim the training hours we put in (three days worth)... but clever people above the Big Brothers only dispense that after a month on the phones. On the phones. Clever, very clever indeed. I need that money: I must count down the days before it is mine.

I've never done a job like this before: I never will again. I'm a creative not an actor with a heart of gold. I respect the cause, I enjoy the lunches in the park with the other 'Grad Bayers', but this is not real life.

This is selling lives.

Have you guessed what I am yet?

The Village Within

I'm sure many people have pondered the benefits of villages within cities. My fresh eyes have only just been warmed by such a concept.

I like the proposition very much. I like this village very much. It is but a short (but vertically challenging) walk from Hotwells, and it has everything I could possibly ever want. If I could site all the best ingredients for living somewhere, Clifton would roll out of the 'best places for Holly to be' tombola. I fell in love today. It's a village within a city, it has GREEN spaces, water, a massive bridge, a Thai deli, posh charity shops, a spiffingly quaint fruit and veg market, an antiques/vintage archade, a Thali Cafe, model-Georgian architecture... oh the list could go on and on and on - and I've only actually spent one morning there thus far. I get excited about these things, and I'm not going to apologise. This is exactly why I moved to Bristol: to find my own little piece of heaven (a place like home in the countryside, but with more choice) in a vibrant city.

It's almost a bit too perfect... (ventured there on a blissfully lazy/sunny Sunday morning) so I'll have to see if I can lift the veil and hunt for nasties in the week... maybe in the evening. Maybe Clifton turns into a chav ghetto on a Friday night? Or (more realistically) maybe I'll out the guerrilla organic society planting tomato seedlings in the raised beds of their well-to-do yet ignorant neighbours?! I doubt either are true, but I will certainly be spending more time in Clifton before I can officially crown it king of the burbs.

I am a country girl at heart... and although I think I'm coping well with my week-day trips to work in the big cider apple - I will certainly relish the slower/quainter west side of the city. So very happy to find such a diamond of a place such a short amble from my already ideal abode. I'm in danger of becoming as smug as a Shoredich trend-bender, but without the style fascism. What I mean is that though I won't be flouncing around with a pug in one hand and a coffee in the other... I will be enjoying the quiet self-satisfaction one feels when one becomes a chameleon (after spending many years in practice at matching its surroundings) who finally finds its perfect backdrop.

I shall make it my absolute mission to fix the heights of Clifton as my permanent backdrop before next year's spring has sprung.

Goodbye Countryside, Hello Big Cider Apple

Well, I've finally gone and done it. Moved. To the. City. Bristol City, cider capital of the West country. Not at all surprisingly, I feel right at home already.

For a start, I can see patches of green and many trees from outside all of the windows in my flat. The traffic noise is a bit of a give-away, but aside from that - I don't feel as much 'out-of-water' as I thought I might. (There was a loud dog-fight in a court yard close by on my first night... the owners seemed to be at war along with the dogs, but aside from the menacing bickering I felt safe peeping from a safe distance four flights up and hidden behind a tree.)

On the fourth floor, to the north I can see the city, the masts of the SS Great Britain, a bit of the river and some green space. From the South facing windows I look out onto a reasonably busy one-way system and above that, the splendor or Clifton. I hope soon to excel upwards and migrate to this place of designer charity shops, delis and running clubs. One day, Clifton - you will be mine.... If I can ever find a good job.

In my rush to leave the countryside in pursuit of something a tad more cosmopolitan, I didn't think it necessary to secure a job. I thought get there first and the rest will follow. Not so simple in times of recession. Also, I neglected to take into account the ratio of over-qualified post-grads to meager media jobs. I sent a CV and cover letter for a writer's position on a magazine, thinking next step, at the very least, I may be invited to interview. Oh no. Nothing is ever that easy. Due to the "volume and high standard of applications... we've set a brief for you to prove you're really interested in the job" The director wanted applicants to provide a 30 second piece-to-camera video (cut, and edited by applicant) and to send it back in a week. What? So I have to invest my time and money producing a film so you can see my face on camera... before I get an interview?! No, I don't care about the job that much. Maybe the wrong attitude, but before an interview? If I had gone to them for an interview - if it went well and I liked the staff... well maybe then I'd be prepared to make a video. Bloody hell, I'm a bit scared. What if there's that much competition for every job I go for?

So, unemployed with new city bills to pay and a new lifestyle to up-keep, I was in a bit of a panic... and also suffering a mighty bout of self-confidence bashing. Not only have I been out-of-the-loop (larking around in the French Alps) for effectively nearly two years, I can't seem to muster up the enthusiasm for following a story like I did when I first entered the world of words. I'm perfectly happy to blog (even though my followers can be counted on one hand) - hello? Is anyone out there? But, when it comes to even thinking about pitching a feature idea I can't energize my mind into motivation. I blame it on the crap rates for freelancers. I blame it on the competition. But what is it really? Well, as much as I hate to admit it: it's a money thing. Right now, I need stability. Writing features, or even pitching features can take days away from me, writing the bloody things takes me at least a week. So why should I spend a week and a half on an article for less than £200? I'm just not going to do it... unless rates increase and journalists get proper recognition for their art. Never going to happen. Not in the 'digital world'.

So, I am rather ashamed and ever so embarrassed to admit that I am temporarily (ONLY temporarily) working in a call centre. But it's not as bad as you're thinking. This is a call centre for charity fundraising campaigns. So, basically I'm a street-botherer... but on the phones. There... I've said it. Well, when you're in severe financial meltdown (blame it on living in the snow), and you've signed up with all the agencies in the city, and you've handed your CV out to all and sundry... you have to take the job. Immediate start... paid weekly... commission for sign-ups... weekends free. There are perks!

I was so reluctant to go for the interview, but my doubts were lessened when I spent time in the office. Turns out this office is full of people like me: creatives struggling to get creative in their chosen industry... having to supplement their living by calling people to talk about sponsoring children half-way across the globe. Funny old world. I like to think it's going to be character building. I'm prepared to do most things if I'm in good company. I think this motley crew of artists, musicians, filmmakers and odd-bods from business redundancies are going to be amusing. They will also doubtlessly provide me with some gold dust for scriptwriting. I can't wait to witness the micro politics. The relationship patterns, oh the conflict... gossip, it's all going to come out.

I'm supposed to be contracted to 13 weeks here, but I don't know if I'll be able to last it out on the phones. I know how annoying it is to be called at home by a cold-caller... I know a lot of people only have the attention span of two seconds... can I handle the rejection? The put-downs? The ignorance? We'll see.

I will of course, be on the look out for more appropriate jobs in the meantime. But it looks like I may have to be prepared to take a few steps down the ladder in order to gain my place on the Bristol scene. This will also be a confidence demolisher, but I'm of strong stock. I can take it.

Second day of training tomorrow. World Vision: I am your minion (for now).

Port Elliot: Festival for wannabe-rebels and the ever-so-well-behaved

Port Elliot Festival: a small, bespoke literary affair perfectly suitable for the middle classes. Wind the clocks back 20 years and you'll see a very different turn of events at the same secluded location.

Port Elliot used to be the venue for the Elephant Fayre (http://www.ukrockfestivals.com/elephant-fayre-1986.html), which by many accounts was a bit of a hippy pilgrimage where free love, cheap drugs by the barrel load and anarchy reined supreme. The Elephant Fayre was a big, unpoliced alternative festival set in the grounds of a vast estate on the North Cornwall boarder. It got shut down in 1986 when a convoy of travellers refused to leave the site, causing a rather unfavourable raucous with the media and locals.

I didn't know anything about the Elephant Fayre until I left the site. I wish I'd done a little research, as it's a fascinating story and it would have been fun to retrace the steps of the aforementioned rebel outcasts. Port Elliot is now a literary soiree predominantly aimed at the middle classes; it's a tidy, close-knit event with a cosy attendance of around 5 thousand - the campsite is just a stone's throw from the main arena and you can walk the perimeter of the site in under 30 mins. Talks by the literary hoi-polloi don't necessarily take centre stage; Port Elliot has a programme that mixes artists, fashionistas and live music with impromptu creative gatherings, wild swimming and one-minute discos. As the festival is on such a small scale, it's highly likely that you'll actually get to attend most of the above... as many performers have repeat sets and off-the-programme sporadic gigs happened upon if you're in the right place at the right time.

This was very refreshing for me, as I'm used to going to Glastonbury where there is too much to see and the site is so big that you end up staying in the areas that you like best and not venturing too far from your safety blanket if you're too hot or hungover. Port Elliot has a smug ambiance that is so hard not to warm to: it's no wonder there are no crusties or hippies in sight.

I was amused and mildly shocked to wake up to silence, aside from the odd snore from one of our endearingly lovely neighbours. Ok, they were all mostly in their silver years... and oh so precious of their campsites (flowers and gingham table cloths on fold-away tables, incense sticks, tents decorated with bunting, ice-chilled champers etc...) but I think I'd rather deal with these trivialities than coping with people fighting/shagging/dumping rubbish on your temporary door step. My tent companion, Katie and I actually had cheerful banter with our neighbours on a daily basis... and if anything we were worried we'd get into trouble for being the 'wild ones'.

Being in such resplendent company made us more eager to be gracious campers, upping the ante by keeping our camp immaculate, cooking jealousy-inducing meals, and dressing as glamorously as our means would allow. Usually, at Glastonbury, I resign to the fact that I'm going to look and feel like a tramp for the week, so I don't make an effort with much aside from leaving our patch free of rubbish before we leave.

Such joy! To be surrounded by conscientious individuals in a beautiful secluded location: so safe we were not afraid to leave our box of wine outside at the end of a night. I thought I may have been a bit weary of all the families and stuffy rahs - there was a significant array of designer wellies on show and exceedingly well-behaved children being tightly guarded by yummy mummies. I laughed so hard waiting in a toilet queue when I observed a Port Elliot style (innocently tumultuous) family showdown. The situation follows thus:

Two little boys, two little girls and two mothers are dithering at the front of the queue. One boy and one girl are dressed normally in fleeces. One boy and one girl are dressed in some obscure green felt and sequin outfits obviously hand-crafted by mummy. One of them is refusing to go into a toilet: doesn't need to go. The more resilient of the two mothers starts squawking in a loud voice: "Eton, Eton. Come here, I want the fleeces in one loo and the monsters in this one." The kids aren't taking much notice, and the little girl monster replies: "Mummy, but I don't need to go!" Angry mummy will not back down, "Aurelia, come here. You're a monster, monsters must come in here with mummy." The poor child reluctantly plods into the loo with the other monster and monster mummy.

Too right I bet the two monsters belonged to her, and no doubt they will turn into bigger monsters when they're publicly harangued as they're growing up for having such pretentious names. I feel deeply sorry for them.

Other such over-protective mumsy behaviour that I witnessed over the weekend included a mother who wouldn't let her kid take a significant short cut over the fence to the car park, siting that it was: "too rusty darling". They had to walk the perimeter instead. I have to say this type of festival opened my eyes to modern middle class behaviour... being surrounded by rahs was eye-opening, thoroughly entertaining and provided me with a wealth of amusing writing fodder to boot. Katie and I made no effort to conform to such middle-Britain formalities: I suppose we were the rebels without a cause. We raved too hard on the first night, we got embarrassingly sick, we didn't have a shower. We even picked litter for our tickets (gasp!)... but more on that later...

Maybe we would have fitted in better had the Elephant Fayre made it into the 21st century. But sod it, we had every right to enjoy Port Elliot; we were there for the culture, the music, the inspiration that such events exude. I'm not saying that there felt like a divide: it's just that I'm not used to such civilised company at festivals. Even the celebrities seemed to be perfectly at ease in our presence. I witnessed Grayson Perry rocking out to a new local band in the 25 Tent, Tim Dowling from the Guardian flitting between talks up at the Bowling Green and Jarvis Cocker ambling idly along with family in tow. No mobbings took place. No paparazzi-induced break downs were reported. Just people being people minding their own business amongst the paying public.

The only dampening to my spirits over the weekend occurred when Katie and I discovered that we had to pay five pounds to snoop around the manor house which provides the focal point to the magnificent grounds. We've at a festival: therefore everything within that festival space should be free. We were rather perturbed, as we'd begrudgingly left Grayson Perry's superb performance in order to be at the house for the allotted tour time.

I think the picture below humourously sums up the way we felt. On the last night, we noticed a number of people standing on tip-toes in order to get a glimpse into a grand entrance room illuminated by this ridiculously grand candelabra. The resplendent figures in the portrait on the opposite wall look mockingly back at the dark individuals on the outside. A little like how I felt at this festival: Like a moth to a flame I wanted to be warmed by the splendor, appreciative of my surroundings, yet firmly (and unashamedly) left on the outside.

Port Elliot, I shall return and I shall find an alternative way to bask in your superior warmth.

Glastonbury at 40

Last week, I left planet earth and arrived at Glastonbury Festival 2010.

Nothing gives me more of a chill of excitement than driving on site before the throng of 'punters'. This year, I headed for Glastonbury-land on the Tuesday, which may seem a little excessive to those unacquainted with such ritual gatherings, but it makes perfect sense if you are in possession of an on-site vehicle pass and relish the glory of finding optimum camping space. Aside from these major factors, it's also an excellent chance to see the site at peace; tranquil, a sea of lush green (at least 10 cm above ground level before Wednesday brought in the stampeeders) and an air of smugness that comes with knowing that your first night is going to be a rare 'quiet' moment with friends and fellow crew-members.

This year, I worked (with a team of friends) as a comedy granny cleaner at the Pussy Parlure, a glamorous spiegel tent venue for cabaret, jazz bands, DJs and general eccentricities. Dress up included our personal choice of 'granny style' clothing: we varied our ensembles from 'classic housewife', to 'Glamorous grannies' to 'true pensioner', never forgetting our feather dusters: an essential prop for tickling customers and excellent dancing partner. I'm not much of a performer (never enjoyed school plays, shying away from any public speaking), but I think that this 'part' was perfect for me, as I felt comfortable in the clothes... enjoyed the reaction we got from our audience and to be honest, a little (pre show time and break time) liquid de-inhibitor sure helped us get into character! The shifts were short, but staying in character for three hours was actually quite taxing. Being part of a circus-type family was exciting though; seeing all the acts preparing for their sets and just generally feeling like part of a special show made the experience all the more endearing - I would definitely do it again next year.

As per-usual, I didn't see as many acts as I should of... not that I don't make the most of my time, it's just that I'm of the opinion that Glastonbury shouldn't be on an itinerary. I like to cruise around, take in the alternative-side, seek out the underbelly of the festival - very rarely venturing into the main arena. In fact, the only time I frequented the Pyramid field was (begrudgingly) for the football, and (wholeheartedly) for Stevie the living-legend Wonder. What a performance. I knew it was going to be ethereal, but this set surpassed all expectations.

I cried, several times. This is unusual for me, I don't think I've ever cried during a musical performance. The tears came at an unexpected time: during a song I'd never heard before. It was a simple ballard, sung by Stevie alone, with no embellishment from his extensive band of approx 40 musicians from around the globe. And again the tears let forth when he sang 'Happy Birthday' with Michael Eavis, simply because it was such a perfect moment - I doubt if there was a dry eye in the field by the end of the song. However, leaving the Pyramid field was not such a pleasurable experience. The crowd was so thick that it took what felt like an hour to get to the dance village, step by laborious step... I realise I have built up a strong fear of large crowds and spent most of the rest of the festival at the quieter reaches of the Park.

So, Monday rolled around at ridiculous speed, sometimes I think a week at Glastonbury isn't enough, but then I remember that Monday-morning feeling I always get. It usually occurs as the highs of the last night subside and you realise that the party can't go on forever. I was especially disenchanted as those around me were still very much 'tripping their nuts off' and I had no desire to play catch up. A heavy, hazy dawn was upon us, and out of the corner of my eyes in all directions I noticed the crusties and freaks emerging... where did they come from? Such creatures included: a man in gimp costume, a man in head to toe black spandex, but the worst by no mistake was and an angry, aggressive, socially retarded Bristolian who decided that he'd try to win over some friends by throwing a handful of laughing gas bullets amongst my friends... only he had no canister to fulfill their potential.

Full of self-pity and obviously in desperate need to let his emotions out - he then started saying things like: "My Missus hates me, my mum hates me..." at this point we were edging away, but he just kept intruding, maybe he was that delirious that he actually thought we were his friends.

The most disturbing moment came soon after: he totally crossed the line of all decency: "Come on, come on! Lets all toss each other off!" Horrible. Vile man. I began to notice that this guy had attracted the attention of a team of security people lolling around close by. They seemed to be circling closer as a few of my friends began to get upset by his presence. He noticed the security people and got aggressive towards them, refusing to move on.

I'd had enough: there really was nothing to keep me up any longer. As I left, I noticed a security van at the top of the Park, hopefully he got restrained and return to whatever hell-hole he emerged from.

But in all honesty - that was the only moment of hellishness in the midst of an otherwise spectacular festival.

Happy Birthday Glastonbury: may you continue to enthrall me forever.

Back to Blighty

Coming back to the UK after a seven-month absence is always going to be a bit of a culture shock. And I mean it in a good way this time. Coming back to splendid weather certainly helps matters. I spent my first week cycling/walking/picnicing around the Somerset countryside going as far as my legs would carry me. As close to an Enid Blyton's Famous Five as you could possibly imagine (for a twenty-something any way).

I had an accomplice (Charlotte), see we're in the same predicament, so we're perfect companions in such wild-spirited adventures. When I say predicament I mean: we're fish-out-of water, at a massive, important juncture in our lives that calls for sensible decisions. But we ran to the hills to look for answers instead of spending the daylight hours googling and ogling jobs; hunting for new places to spread our roots. The more time we spend together the easier it becomes to stay away from reality, yet the conversation ever-increasingly seems to slip back to our worries for the future and how we should go about making that first step back into sensibility (or the rat race).

I'm not saying this idle time was unproductive. In fact I think it gave me a certain perspective, opening my mind to new ideas whilst also reintroducing myself to actual horizons. By this I mean the place the sea meets the sky. You don't get horizons in the Chamonix Valley. You are in the Cham bubble, subtly and lovingly caged in by mountains. You don't notice whilst you're there. But when you're standing on a deserted pebble beach, (all be it a dirty, flotsam-strewn beach), and you can actually see a line in front of you, an endless line: that's when you realise it's liberating to be back. In the UK, surrounded by gentle hills, the smell of summer, a dry and reassuring heat on your back - I'm home and I love it.

Friendliness is another British trait that I have been newly-treasuring, that I am ever-so glad to be enveloped by on my return. Last week Charlotte and I escaped the idyl and travelled up to Todmorden to see my sister. I'm ashamed to say that in all my worldly travel, I have somehow managed to neglect my home country and before last week, Nottingham was the furthest north I'd ventured. Todmorden is a welcoming town set deep in a valley surrounded by moors and forbidding hills. I think the landscape could certainly be isolating and oppressive in the winter, but at this time of year there is enough colour and life to make it as pleasant as any flat-lying land. A micro brewery just a stroll away from my sister's front door provided fresh ales and cider as well as a ten-piece band that were abstractly poised in the mid-section of the bar... a cosy affair which proved a little impractical when we left. I have to admit to knocking a small piece of band equipment onto the floor as we passed by to leave - not because I was drunk (I'd only had a pint of 5% cider) but because the band had expanded into the walkway to the exit and their excess baggage had spilled a little further afield.

Later we found a Thai restaurant that seemed to have an atmosphere more attuned to a low-key, arty London bar than a small-town Asian eatery, which are generally serene and dated places. The owners had successfully fused traditional Thai hospitality with good lighting, comfortable seating, crowd-pleasing music and excellent food bursting with flavour - no small wonder it was a bustling hub on an otherwise dreary Sunday evening.

A brisk canal walk the next day took us to Hebden Bridge, an extremely quaint yet metropolitan town with an impressive selection of eco conscious/vegan/vegetarian friendly establishments... including a handmade soap shop with a penchant for shaping suds into fantastical gateaux and stupendous desserts. Talk about too good to eat! I was pleasantly surprised by the freshness of the town: although the architecture still points towards an industrial past, (cue the stock 'Coronation Street' set facade, complete with sagging washing lines strung on every yard) the local attitudes and ethically-minded community spirit seems to have catapulted Hebden into a future yet to be discovered in more metro-central parts of the country.

Next, a day out in Manchester. Sadly, the weather and a poor choice of footwear tampered my spirits somewhat, but the promise of a vintage clothes markets soon perked me up. A menagerie of fashion items ranging from the 40s to present day retro-rip offs greeted us all around the walkway of a modern mall. I was so overwhelmed that I actually couldn't buy anything. There was too much beauty, and as we stumbled across this mecca at the end of a high-octane walking tour of the city, I was again too preoccupied with my aching feet to make any sensible decisions.

Liverpool. A city of many faces. The skyline viewed from the ferry on the Mersey is a triumph of diversity: old and new jostling for your attention, but not in an ugly way. I loved the slick black visage of the new Maritime Museum, and strolling along the Albert Dock in the afternoon sunshine reminded me of being in Barcelona, minus the palm trees. Liverpool is a fun city; youthful in it's outlook and yet still bound by historical glory.

The two wildly differing Cathedrals are a pleasure to behold, especially when you get an idea of what the original plans were for the Metropolitan. We were (accidentally) lucky enough to be given much more than the regular tourist tour of the Met's crypt by a burly yet jolly security guard who, unaware of our presence down there was about to lock us in for the night. Instead of bustling us out so he could get an early finish, the guard showed us deep inside the crypt's many halls and prayer rooms, which are used for modern practises such as beer festivals and choir recitals. The crypt's size gives you a better idea of the scope of the original project, but the actual ground level build is less spectacular after you've viewed pictures of the original scale model. Unfortunately, the war and lack of funds broke the project's ambitions and the cathedral now, though grand in an ultra-modern way, is less spectacular in size than the space below, which was completed before the money ran out.

People like to talk in Liverpool. As a tourist this is very endearing. As a writer this is also very endearing. The heart of the city is as lively as I imagine it was in the swinging 60s, and the Beetles heyday. One night on the town, intoxicated by inexpensive cocktails and the warm night air, I was struck by the fashion sense/hair styles and attitudes of the young people around me in the hip and fizzy bars... it all harks back to that golden hour. I was in a time warp, and it was authentic, not a hint of tacky/embarrassing fakery in sight. Sigh.

Even in London strangers are sometimes friendly and talkative. After a liquid-heavy last night in Liverpool I found myself descending into a hot hell on the tube. Rush hour. Stress hour. I had to be patient, no point in joining the riot. I had time enough before my bus back to Somerset not to have to go into a blind panic... which is what I usually feel myself straying towards when in such situations. As I ascend the stairs, I notice an official Underground worker walking parallel with me, he wears a look of sympathy and it's directed at me, yes me!

Anguish is obviously etched on my face; he asks if I'm ok, do you know where you're going?Instantly, hearing these words make me feel a little more relaxed, yes I am ok and I do kind of know where I'm going. But I say it anyway. Hammersmith. He gives me the directions I know I know, sort of. But it's reassuring. Always reassuring to be helped without having to ask for it. I said I was tired, he laughed and asked where I'd traveled from. We struck up a short conversation about Liverpool (whilst walking), it was nice, casual. When does this ever happen in Chamonix? He was interested, then pointed me even more in the right direction when it looked like I was straying. An insignificant exchange, but poignant for me, reminding me that I'm home and I'm safe.

Courmayeur In Pictures

Untracked mountains looking towards the Italian side of Mont Blanc.

So sublime, up here you really feel alien, as if you're not supposed to track such beauty. The quiet is unnerving.

There's me, already lagging behind. Trying to traverse on my new skis, trying not to look at the drop on my left-hand side. I actually took my skis off around the next bend because I thought it may be quicker.

Semi-triumphant, behind me is the virtually untracked basin we skied down shortly after the mini-avalanche episode. Highs and lows followed by quiet success.

Me with Jenni (excellent and extremely experienced Finnish snowboarder). Jenni has been skiing/snowboarding most of her life, and had completed this off-piste run once a year before. She certainly succeeded in tried to keep up my spirits when I thought I was never going to get down this mountain.

Lessons in Chamonix Living

I love observing the French. They come in so many varied forms that I'd like to just share a few archetypes with you.... kind of as character studies and just for the pure joy of passing on knowledge in case you ever find yourself in a French resort town and feel the need to 'fit in with the locals'.

Just to set the scene, here's a summery of what you'd expect to observe on a leisurely stroll thought the Chamonix high street on a sunny day at the height of the winter season:

You'd better hope you're sober and not in a rush, as traversing between tourists who can't take their eyes off the mountains proves difficult, and if you're still drunk from the night before... or in the early stages of a hangover, you'll be looking at the floor, so this proves equally disastrous. If you try and take over large groups of slow-moving tourists, make sure you say, "Pardon" and don't touch them, else they'll get angry, or you could ruin one of a billion Mont Blanc photo compositions. Watch out for luxourious-looking rats that pose as expensive dogs, there are too many to avoid and they make a god-awful noise if stepped on, and also, their owners are so attached to these small balls of scrawny in-bred K9 that you could probably end up with a massive law suit on your hands. The bigger husky-type dogs are much more entertaining and often more accommodating, but a lot of big, big doggies (like St Bernard's or bigger) dribble on you or sit on you, so don't touch or look at them too intently.

The French love their dogs, and Chamonix is a very rich resort, so don't under estimate the seriousness of their affections... and never laugh at the silly jackets that often match the owners outfits or hand-luggage. As well as fancy dogs and tourists, you'll also notice the odd celebrity mingling in the shadier places... so yes, maybe keep your eyes at eye level now. Last year it was Kylie in No Escape (a not-too-grimy strip club), Penelope Cruz, Matt from Busted (in Le Terrasse, where I worked), and a famous cricketer who's name escapes me. So far this year we've had: Kate Moss, Ralph Little (drank in the pub that I am working in now) and boxing hopeful Amir Khan, and it's only March! I just found out that a friend of a friend was sacked from their chalet-hosting job for leaking a juicy piece of gossip to the press regarding one of the chalets guests: Tiger Woods' wife at the time of THAT embarrassing incident. Poor woman... just when she thought she had found a safe haven to retreat to...

Back to the street-voyuering:

Everyone you pass will have the rudimentary baguette in hand... so make sure you do the same, and purchase earlier rather than later in the day, as they go stale pretty quick. Whatever the locals are doing (be it driving, cycling, dog walking, on phone, shouting) they will always have either a baguette or a cigarette in their hand/s.... haven't seen any onion-strung necks or strings of garlic yet... but maybe that's a rural thing?! Another thing I'd add is to smile at all old people... they seem to like shouting at tourists, and young people.... so it's best to have them on your side. (I was recently on the receiving end of a torrent of incomprehensible abuse from an old French man in my apartment block. I had just walked in the front door. That was all. I know that a lot of the residents are old there, and they complain about people using the stairs in the evening and moan if you take any ski kit into your flat.... but still - I hadn't done ANYTHING!) I was extremely hungover and unable to retort, as my French is so poor... I wanted to cry, that seemed like the only conceivable option at the time.

The other thing I've noticed in Chamonix is that there is a massive gap between the rich 'second home owners' and the 'seasonaires' that populate the town. It feel so similar to when I was studying in Cornwall... and I guess it's a very familiar cultural divide as with many resort/tourist towns around the world. We seasonaires are seen as the scum of the earth to the people who populate this town in the holidays, and yet, most of us provide the valuable work-force that keeps them happy and provides them with all the luxurious trappings they take for granted when they arrive in there Porche 4x4s at the weekends. Believe me, I've cleaned enough chalets to realise that there is another side to Chamonix that I will never experience (underfloor heating/marble baths/extinct animal shag-piles/fully-stocked Champagne fridges) unless I marry a millionaire. The seasonaires are an eclectic mix of lost-young-souls looking to escape 'real-life', or wishing to pursue an extreme lifestyle in an area of sublime beauty. We appreciate each day that we get to wake up surrounded by the mountains, work extremely hard to afford the French resort cost of living (approx. £1.30 for a tin of beans) and of course play very hard to reward ourselves for being alive at the end of a crazy day of skiing and to celebrate mountain life. I'm not joking when I say that living here really makes you realise how fragile life is and how much you should appreciate what you've got, wherever you are.

Before I get too deep and meaningful, I'd better add on a few more characters that you're likely to encounter should you decide to embark on a six-month-party-fueled winter season in France:

French Rude Boys

Easily the most entertaining sight to behold in a resort. Let me describe the style first; colour is king and the more neon the better. Clashing neon wins browny points: even your blind grandmother will spot these kids from a town away. Brands are very important too. I think these kids either all have very rich parents or literally spend the whole rest of the year saving up for the latest Special Blend jacket or Burton gloves. Ski pants are baggy, often hiked up to just below the knee with long socks on show and prize trainers in full view: one wonders if they have even been up the hill, where are their ski/board boots, huh?

Hair is usually just the right length to peep out in curly torrents under a hard flat cap placed at exactly the right angle and orientation of peak. They have a distinctive swagger that makes them look like wanna-be surfer dudes... low and loose. Some carry their boards with them everywhere, but more often than not, they're using their hands to smoke or to swig from illegal bottles of beer or vodka. Most are under-age, but they seem to get away with consuming a successful amount of booze in front of the many late-night sandwich shops... I know, I've been offered a swig many times whilst waiting for a snack. Completely harmless, these boys are all about style, cheeky charm and fairly-innocent adolescent behaviour.

Scandies

I am not friends with the 'Scandie' crowd. Probably because I'm not cool enough, ah well.

The Scandies have a massive presence in Chamonix, (because Chamonix is the best, most extreme resort in the world, yah?) and as with the French Rude Boys, they are very, very, very easy to spot. They obviously take a lot of time to perfect their look, so already you're intrigued when you see a group of them because most of the young people you see in Cham are pretty casual in appearance in comparison. Not meaning to stereotype: but the girls look pretty classic: long blond hair, slightly greasy (to show all the hard work they've done off piste that day) and tussled, aviator sun glasses, skinny jeans, white shirts with a boho edge. They've been up since dawn to catch the first tracks on a powder day, so they can't look too contrived. Natural. Beautiful: I'm not jealous one fraction...

The boys have a more groomed look, though they don't have to bother with makeup, so they probably have more time to get ready than the girls. During the skiing day, they'll be sporting the PHATTEST powder skis imaginable.... as big as two snowboard welded together times two. Their ski gear also takes a neon theme, though it's not as rude a style as the French boys. At apres or maybe on a leisure day they will be found in packs of three or four, mirrored aviators on, slicked back hair - either with powder-day sweat or pomade. They also tend to wear skinny jeans and lumber-jack-type shirts and maybe a leather jacket: the Stockholm look basically. They are all very skinny and tall, so this look is effortless and elegant. Almost too cool for school... definitely too intimidating for lowly-types like me to approach...

A Day of Epic Proportions

Ever had the feeling that a day is going to change your life in some significant way, regardless of the part you play in it? Well, that happened to me yesterday.

I'd arranged to go skiing in Courmayeur, Italy with three other girls from Chamonix. We were all feverishly excited by the prospect of a day out of the valley and a chance for me to have a proper go at off-piste skiing. Plus supposedly enough time for pizza and to soak up the sublime vistas.... also my first excursion through the Mont Blanc tunnel.

We met at the Chamonix bus stop, at a reasonable hour in the morning, loaded our skis and boards into the store and got on a thankfully quiet bus - unusual for a peak-season Saturday... however, this tranquillity swiftly evaporated as soon as we came through the tunnel and were dropped at the resort. The promise of fresh powder and a perfect blue sky couldn't distract us from the impending doom that rose as we joined a teeming crowd of predominantly Italian families at the ticket office. Just over an hour later (and a few rising degrees noted on the info board), we graced the first gondola at Courmayer. The two Finish girls were very keen to head straight to the top of the mountain and surf the virtually untracked freeride area. Annabel was impartial and I (though apprehenteous at my low-level off-piste abilities and nervous of using new skis that I hadn't practiced off-piste with yet) was keen to push myself and endure whatever was thrown at me.

The pistes looked welcoming, a pleasing array of blue and red runs that I personally would have preferred to start off with.... but time was of the essence, as we'd already lost so much due to queuing. We smugly booked a table at a Pizzeria for our return: a deserved reward for the journey ahead. 2:30pm, that potentially gave us almost three hours skiing time. Unfortunately, we still had another two gondolas to tackle, and they were as eagerly clogged as the first. As we boarded the last gondola, I let a wave of mild panic engulf me as I read notices about avalanche risks and forbidden areas to avoid at all costs. I also remembered that the Carte Neige insurance I had didn't cover off-piste accidents and that I hadn't yet completed my Carte Vitale paperwork (free health insurance cover for me as an employee on a French contract).

I hadn't realised just how extreme the terrain we would be descending was until we got off the last gondola and we were alone at the edge of a series of deserted mountains, virtually untracked and steep-looking. The Finish girls had graced this particular area only once before the previous year, but they weren't 100% sure if they could recall their route. Between them, they had a small amount of avalanche kit, Annabel and I had nothing but our mobile phones. At the time I didn't think about how dangerous your impending journey could have been, but the girls positive enthusiasm, calm confidence of our ability to do this and their insistence that most of it would be traversing and wide expanses of powder helped to put my pessimistic thoughts at bay.... for the time being.

We commenced our descent with a frightening traverse along the ledge of a steep, untracked mountain ridge. I struggled initially to keep at a pace that I felt comfortable, without picking up too much speed, but I ended up lagging far behind the others and side-stepping most of the end section. Panting and sweating, I eventually caught up with the girls, and we trekked over the other side of the ridge, looking down a steep, but expansive gully. The first bit was steep and massive moguls confronted me, there was no way I could do tight turns in such a tight spot, so again, I had to side step and slide, until I reached an area I though I was ready to start skiing properly. Unfortunately, I lost a ski... trying to retrieve it in waist-deep powder was frustrating and demeaning.... I didn't want to hold the girls up any more. As I replaced the lost ski, I heard a few whimpers coming from the girls, who were in front of me.

I gasped as I saw the beginnings of a small avalanche topple over Annabel and Jenni's heads. I looked directly above me and a small amount was falling on me too. Luckily, it wasn't anything too serious, probably a product of a freak gust of wind over the ridge, but it was enough for me to realise I was in a very dangerous situation, way out of my depth in many respects.

After a few minutes of the girls deciding the next move, I encountered possibly my most sublime snow-moment thus far. A long, glide through the powder, feeling free and beginning to understand the addict's-fix status that this mighty white stuff has for so many boarders and skiiers. I was surfing, floating just above the glistening snow, carving out fresh tracks.. not caring if I fell as it was the ultimate in soft landings.

Having caught up with the girls again, we took some time to soak up our environment and take some photos. The next section of our descent entailed a sketchy traverse to a tree-lined gully, again severely mogulled, narrow and in poor light, as we'd now dipped below the sun's reach. I was getting cold, shaky with a nervous lack of energy: I looked at my phone and realised that we were already late for our pizza booking and still had the steepest section to go. I couldn't get my turns flowing, so I ended up doing long zig-zag traverses, disappointed in my lack of confidence and annoyed that I was holding up the girls. I have to admit that by this point I was almost ready to cry and give up. I shouted at myself and soon realised this was not the right attitude to have in such a situation. The girls offered me encouraging words and stressed that we'd take things at my pace. I was so glad for their understanding, but I could tell they were probably resenting taking me all the way to the top.

After what felt like another hour or two of snail-paced traversing with the odd turn over massive moguls, we reached the bottom of the valley, where we reached a path that was well tracked and would obviously lead us back to civilisation. I realised that we'd only seen a handful of people since we set off, and for once I was actually looking forward to being amongst the hoards we had sought to avoid earlier. The time was fast approaching 3.15 when we finished an exhausting cross-country trail, and came across a restaurant and chair lift. Unsure if this was the correct way to get back to the main gondola, we took a risk and asked to jump the extensive queue to try and avoid missing our bus; the only service running that day. I was anxious, and once we jumped off this lift, we had to make a few split decisions to decide which way was the quickest route down.

Joining the hoards on a mogulled red run, we began to recognise our surroundings, we were only a few minutes away from the main gondola. It was going to be a struggle to make the bus, as we still had a few roads to walk along before we were back at the bus stop. Thinking ahead, we called the bus company to ask if they'd hold the bus for a few minutes. The representative was French, but Annabel seemed to think that he understood our predicament.

Mentally and physically drained and not relishing the idea of having to stay in Courmayeur for the night or arrange a lift back to Chamonix, we decided we had to concentrate all our efforts on getting to the bus stop as quickly as possible. Not an easy task in ski boots, and with an up-hill ascent on the horizon. Red as beetroots, we arrived just in time, the bus driver giving us a series of amused and disapproving looks as we staggered aboard. At last: rest, relaxation and repose. After a non-stop, action and adrenaline-fueled day, we relished the short journey back, deep in thought about what we'd achieved that day... finally having the time to piece together the madness.

Once back in the valley, we went on a well-deserved apres mission, followed by pizza.... not made or consumed in Italy, but fitting non-the-less. After a quick bath and repose, we reconvened at the pub and a very long day, turned into a long, long night. A celebration of life, a salute to the mountains and a well-deserved treat for surviving what could have been a treacherous or even disastrous day. I'm thankful for the girls for getting me though the toughest day's skiing I've done in my life, but I also know that if I can get through that, I can get through almost anything. Like I said before: I knew full-well it was going to be a life-changing day, a day that makes you truly appreciate life and respect the mysterious ways of the mountains. I will be much better educated in avalanche risk and such before I attempt this terrain again. I shall be playing much closer to the piste for the time being, until I'm more confident at off-piste and have built up my leg muscles to withstand the intense pressure of powder!