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!

Winter Sessions 2010 Launch Party Review

Venue: Le Podium, Chamonix Patinoire/Ice Rink

Date: 18/12/09

'Mountain folk gear up for a season laced with fresh tracks and glorious powder'

As the first heavy dusting of powder hits the Chamonix valley, what better way to celebrate mountain life than with the launch of Winter Sessions 2010, a series of events led by a prolific cohort of artists/DJs/snow sports fanatics and creative types brimming with mountain soul.

Over the next five months, the head-honchos at World Sessions 2010 have concocted an events calendar spanning the Alps that is going to be hard to outshine. Lucky powder-hungry people can expect to be treated to the fresh sounds of D-Code, Jenna G, Foreign Beggars and Engine-Earz playing in resorts such as Meribel, Val D’Isere and Chamonix - culminating in a storming three-day festival in April.

The launch party got off to a stomping start with DJs in two arenas revving up the crowd, reverberating ear-tingling vibes from a white-hot sound system supplied by Funktion One. A burly crew of local artists including: Delph, IYE 95 and Skred teased and tantalised with a bouncy mix of hip-hop, breaks, and dub step. Swiss duo Luluxpo provided a hearty blend of pink-tinted electro with a sensual, loved-up vibe.

The line-up was headed by legendary godfather of hip-hop Rodney P, who exuded more energy than a six-month-old cocker spaniel - integrating himself fully with the crowd like a true showman. Rodney P belted out a barrage of familiar tunes in his iconic London wide-boy accent, inviting all of the Winter Sessions crew to join him on the decks throughout the set. This free-style attitude paid off, keeping everyone buzzing with adrenaline, exactly how mountain-junkies should feel after an epic session on the slopes.

For more info on forthcoming events go to: http://wintersessions2010.com/

Avian Invasion

It's Monday morning, alarm goes off at 7:45. No, please just another hour!

No such luck, after a work-heavy weekend at Maunsel House (ancient stately home used as wedding and conference venue) it's usually the last place I want to be on a Monday when I'm tired and groggy. So imagine my dismay when I come upon the following situation:

I've been asked to check one of the cottages on the estate to make sure it's presentable for a viewing with potential new wedding clients. I'm thinking that it should be a quick and easy task, as none of the cottages have been used by guests all week. Well, it turns out that this cottage has been 'occupied', but not by any civilized beings.

I open the door and straight away notice two vases on the floor, one with a broken handle. Hummm, strange. I then go through to the living room and notice dark splodges on the cream rugs and books shelved above the fireplace have been knocked off-kilter like dominoes. Hummmm, I'm kind of worried now.

I turn to the left and go towards the bedroom on the left. Under the large mirror at eye level across the other side of the room is a large splattering of sludge coloured bird poo, and lots of it. Shit! Then I start to examine the room closer: everything is covered in poo. The wood-laminate floor, the fireplace, the window ledges, the curtains, the bed cover. Oh no.

Hoping that maybe the intruder hasn't investigated the rest of the cottage I go back into the sitting room and notice more poo. I walk into the other downstairs bedroom and this is worse. More poo on the cream carpet, much more poo on the window ledges and curtains. Oh, and a few picture frames are definitely squiffy. This clean up job is going to take ages. Where is the culprit - what if it's dead?!

It's a small consolation that the intruder did not poo in the bathroom, even though the door was open and inviting...

One more room to examine: the upstairs bedroom, (which is supposedly haunted) and as I slowly embark up the steep and tight stairs, the sun gleaming through a small window at eye level, I glimpse my first sight of him. Or her.

It's a black crow, a skinny one (we determined that it must have been in the cottage for at least three days) and it's misty white pupils glint in my direction as I come as far as I dare on the stairs. It doesn't squawk or move, just turned it's head more in my direction. I'm not superstitious, but I did feel a little on edge. To be honest, I was expecting it to be one of the ducks or chickens from the estate - for all the poo this bird excreted seemed too much for a crow to produce.

I'm too much of a wuss to go any further, so I head back to the main house and recruit house keeper Jane to assert her no-nonsense attitude on the crow. Jane is superstitious and she has regular psychic readings, so as we went back over to the cottage she was all-too confidently telling me that a crow in the house signifies death and she'll take the situation up with her psychic. Uh oh.

I show Jane all the poo downstairs and it's nice for someone else to share my outrage. She then bounds up to the room containing the crow, and closes the door behind her. Within seconds she's managed to grab the thing, and opens the door to show me the fairly-docile animal in her grip. She's laughing about how bony it is. It's not surprising; losing all that body weight out of its backside.

Jane opens a window and the crow flies off. I'm left on my own wondering where the hell to start on this avian invasion. An hour later, I'm fairly pleased with my effort, but not totally convinced I've detected all the brown and white matter-splatter. I then go over to the house and start deep-cleaning the industrial-sized kitchen, guh. Yuk. The man who collects the posh crystal glasses from the weekend's wedding moans to me that the motorway is clogged from here to Bristol because of a major accident. Uh oh, my parents are in Bristol, or on there way to Bristol. I can't help thinking a morbid thought that somehow the crow has brought bad luck to my family. But I'm not worried enough to call them to confirm this ridiculous speculation.

When I cycle over the motorway bridge, I am staggered to see the traffic still at a stand-still as far as my eyes can see. Little bit worried. When I get home I call mum, but it goes straight to answer machine. I leave a casual message advising them to take another route back. They don't call back till much later on in the day. Mum airily tells me that they took the motorway any way and do I need anything from Sansbury's?

I want to stop thinking about this odd start to my day, but it's one of those strange events that I needed to write down and maybe come back to. Crow, crow go away. At least he's free now and I didn't find a dead body. Must remind the management to mend the mesh over the chimney pots...

Seasonal Itchy Feet

What is it about the metamorphosis from Autumn to winter that makes me get itchy feet, desperately in need of a change of scenery or lifestyle? I know I'm by no means the only one who feels like this, but there are certainly a few things I'm working on to metamorphose into a happy winter-dweller.

First - I'm getting fit. Signed up at the gym three weeks ago, and beginning to feel stronger and although the weight isn't exactly dropping off yet, I am enjoying the exertion, near pain of circuits, weights and hardcore cardio.

Secondly, I've got to make a massive decision very soon as to where to spend my winter and spring months. It would be far too easy to head back to the Alps and live in a bubble of hedonistic bliss, now that I have a good friendship base there, work contacts, etc. all it would take to emigrate there once more is enough money for a ski pass and deposit for accommodation. I could kid myself that this time I'd spend more time writing and less time drinking, but seriously, I could get involved in one of the two magazines that are produced in the region as well as writing screenplays from home. I think that as long as I'm not working every evening until 3 in the morning like I did last year, there's hope for the creative juices to flow forth.

My other (much more sensible option!) is to move to Bristol and get work with an independent production company. I'm volunteering at a few film festivals in the South West in the next month or two, so I have the chance to scope out the options, see what kind of jobs are on offer and build more contacts, which may then lead on to job opportunities. It's about time I got a 'proper' job, maybe even enjoy an 'office' environment... and Bristol is an un-pretentious place; smaller than London, yet sharing London's off-beat, artsy community feel. I also have quite a few friends there, so it would not feel like too much of an upheaval for me, the self-proclaimed country bumpkin.

I guess one side of the coin offers fun and frivolity with a dash of character research (also a chance to improve my skiing, learn to snowboard and live in a sublime environment), whilst the other side of the coin offers financial stability, better job opportunities, arts and culture galore... and really, really bad weather! Aghhh, now I remember the main reason why I hate the English winter: mild, rainy, mild, rainy, oh and maybe a dash of dullness thrown in for good measure.

Ok, I think I may have made a decision... ?

Reflections on an Alpine Adventure

The following photos are a selection of my favourite views from my apartment, and on the slopes in and around the Chamonix valley during winter 2008 and spring of 2009.

A halo above the beautiful Mont Blanc mountain range - a view from our local park.

Bottled "Natural trouble"... the advertising couldn't be more correct... (well, in truth 'trouble' means 'cloudy' in French, but it caused us no end of amusement!)

One of our famous Alpine BBQ spreads

One thing I learned from living here is that dogs are the most important possessions of any self-respecting Chamonix resident. All shapes and sizes, dogs rule this town, without a doubt.

Taken on my way down the Grand Montet chair lift after the Boss Des Boss ski contest.

View from the Grand Montet chair lift, possibly my favourite chair lift due to these stunning views.

View from Grand Montet chair lift

Goodbye Vin Chaud, hello Xante. Easily my new favourite apres ski beverage.


Apres ski smiles with Vicky.


Apres ski smiles with Sophie.


A stunning sun-set above Mont Blanc, a view from our living room window.


Another stunning sun-set view from our apartment window.


The only charity shop in town had a hefty supply of classic and retro one-piece ski suits, which my friends and I utilised to the max. Here we are assembled for a 'one-piece extravaganza' and picnic at Grand Montet.


The 'Cham Bubble' after a hefty dusting of fresh snow.


Easily my favourite view/apres ski location up the mountain. Le Tour, I love you.


Iris and I after a successful day's skiing at Le Tour in the sunshine.


The Ice Bar at Le Tour.


One of the best day's skiing of the season - fresh powder, blue skies and no one on the piste! Blissful!


My ski gear. Such a difficult decision to choose a colour scheme... I thought fresh green would work well with the approaching spring...


Sun rise over the mountains, again a view we were privileged enough to witness every day from our apartment.


The approaching sun casting an eerie mist over the edge of the mountain - a view from our living room window. I still can't believe we were so very lucky to see scenes like this every day.

Advent of an Alpine Adventure 07/12/08

As I write this, I am less than 100 yards away from the sublime heights of Mont Blanc, Chamonix. The apartment I am sharing with my sister and two friends has floor to ceiling windows on one side, looking out at a snowy winterland that changes in unexpected ways throughout the day. I’ve been here since Monday, and adjusting to the Alpine way of life is becoming easier with every flurry of snow – which is very consistent at present. Chamonix is a bit like a surreal bubble of perfection; there are beautiful, well-dressed people (and many pooches), idyllic apartments and a rocky terrain peppered with fur trees and lift stations. I couldn’t have come to a more outlandish place – in comparison to gentle, subtle Somerset.

Why have I chosen to up sticks to this part of Europe? Well, first and foremost, I want to master skiing, which in equal measures scares and thrills me. I am not too good with heights, and the first time I got in a bubble up to Les Grands Montets in March, I have to admit that my stomach was doing more than just somersaults. I will be starting on the much more suitable incline of Le Tour baby slopes – as soon as I have forked out for the kit. The second reason (and more sensible option) is to develop a number of screenplay ideas that I have been intending on starting for some time. I have two feature ideas and a few shorts, including a mixture of comedy and drama.

A few of these ideas came to me after a rather over-indulgent weekend spent at the Cornwall Film Festival, where Pernickety was screened and short listed for an audience award. We didn’t get the award, but I made friends with the winning filmmakers, who I then stayed with a few weeks ago whilst networking and volunteering at the Encounters Short Film Festival in Bristol. I find festivals fascinating, and observing them from the inside, is so much more interesting. I think there is a story in the pretentiousness hierarchy and fakery within such a bizarre environment, it would be fun to play with a character based on a young volunteer set in this environment for the first time.

I feel quite at home in the hectic flow of such events, having partaken in volunteer work at Glastonbury, Cheltenham Screenwriters Festival and Encounters this year alone. Such a great way to meet people in the industry, suss out the gossip, go to screenings and seminars for free and attend the oh-so-important networking events. I will certainly continue to make myself known at more festivals next year… maybe expanding to the London Short Film Fest and some over-seas events. They are also the perfect ground for pimping films, so Pernickety has of course been distributed accordingly. Most impressively, I think I deserve brownie points for placing Pernickety in the hands of a script editor at Working Title and Dawn Sharpless at Dazzle Films.

I also placed a number of copies on the information desk at Encounters, so there is a chance that they may have made their way into a few important people’s hands… though I have no way of knowing unless they email me with feedback. I was lucky enough to read a draft of a new Julien Temple feature script earlier in the summer, and I recently sent him a letter thanking him for letting me read it, along with a copy of Pernickety.

I am beginning to run out of steam in the distribution department though, as it’s just me doing all the promotional stuff, it’s difficult to get excited about filling in info on Withoutabox and shelling out submission fee money when some of the festivals don’t even have the courtesy to let you know if your film hasn’t made the cut. Now I’m in France, it will be even more expensive to send things off, but I will persevere, as the film should have at least another six-month’s shelf life ahead of it. I am very excited about beginning my next script, though obviously I am already stalling my progress by writing this long blog. But hey, I’m a writer and it’s all about the double-edged sword of self-doubt and procrastination!

As for the long winter months ahead, I am so very excited about après ski, observing Chamonix’s characters and spending time with friends on the slopes, and writing of course. Just last night I witnessed a crazy scene that is begging to be used in a film.

Picture this: all my new friends smoke, and so as not to appear like a complete loner in the bar when they all went out for a fag, I reluctantly donned my coat and followed suit. There was already some kind of commotion going on outside, but things became pretty clear when we heard a man barking at a snarling dog just in front of the bar’s forecourt.

The man, obviously deranged, or drunk or both would not stop barking, circling the dog, provoking it, testing its authority. The owner of the dog pleaded with him to stop, but to no avail. The Frenchman now started shouting obscenities at the dog owner, his scraggly hair shaking violently around his bony face. Other people were now getting involved, trying to calm the Frenchman down, and ushering him away from the dog. The commotion upset not only the crowd that had congregated, but the other dogs in the area were all cowering away, accept for the one that the Frenchman was venting his anger at.

Eventually the Frenchman backed off and staggered off with his friend, still murmuring and flailing his arms around as he went. It was such a strange situation, and a visually arresting scene to witness. Obviously it was pretty horrific to see a man challenging a big snarling dog, but very cinematic non-the-less. I will try and write it into something, for sure.

Right, now I must get on with some real writing, fire up Final Draft for the first time since Pernickety, which was about four months ago, but first, I must eat the remains of a delicious celeriac soup that I made yesterday. Bon appetite!