Snow in June

CRUNCH! Ohmigod...I think I’ve just broken something.  One of my limbs must have fallen off.  I’m probably pissing blood out of a main artery as we speak.  The Snowdome will look like the site of a massacre. The children will be scared, for the love of God, someone get me an ambulance!

“You alright down there Nicola?” comes the voice of über cool Luke, the snowboarding instructor.

“It’s Natalie, and no, I think I might be dying.”

“You’re fine Nicola” he says as he plants an über cool snow boot on my board and hauls me to my feet.  I think he knows my name is Natalie (this is the third time I’ve corrected him), so clearly he’s deliberately trying to annoy me by continuing to call me Nicola.

I must say he’s enjoying my spazzy lack of co-ordination a little too much.  It may be because I’m the only girl in this group who hasn’t either a) come with a boyfriend or b) is over the age of ten, but he appears to have taken a liking to me and keeps insisting I have more attempts at the run.  All I want to do is have a breather for five minutes.  I’ve been snow falling (I can’t in all truth call it “boarding” just yet) for two hours now, and I know damn well there’s a Starbucks at the bottom of that slope, and it’s calling me.

I unhook my boots and head to the rope pulley to make yet another ascent to the training area.  In front of me is some wannabe WAG in her 1980’s Princess Diana style skiing jumpsuit.  I instantly hate her.  She’s all blonde hair and bling, looking gorgeous, while I’m knackered, as red as a tomato, and the snow has given me a runny nose, so I look simply delightful.  I have an Ally McBeal moment, and visualise smacking my board over the back of her head to knock out some of her dodgy extensions.  I stop short though when I realise between her legs is an adorable child, who’s probably about two, on a teeny tiny pair of skis. How cute?!  As we get to the top of the run I watch the bimbo abandon her poor child.  I’m horror struck!  The poor kid has probably only just learned to walk and she’s just left him up here!  He turns his cherubic little face to me and grins....Then the little bastard slaloms down to his mother with the grace and speed of an Olympic champion.  I’m so taken aback that I wobble on my board and face-plant the snow.

“No time for napping here Nicola” comes über cool Luke’s mocking tone.

“Ifts Nathfali, you fmuffing fcretin” I snap...luckily my face is still in the snow, so I don’t think he really caught the gist of what I was saying.  I make a mental note not to indulge the urge to drop kick the two year old down the slope when he gets back up here.

Once again Luke hauls me to my feet.  The sadist has new plans for me; we’re trying a new manoeuvre.

“Right Nicola, We’re going to try going forward now, so you’re going to stick your bum out and straighten your knees”

I oblige and assume the position as instructed. 

“Erm, not yet though, I’ll need to be in front of you” says Luke. 

Fuck! I realise that über cool Luke is actually standing very close behind me, holding my fleece so that I don’t start sliding down the slope, and I’ve just pressed my arse right into his crotch. Why isn’t he moving away?? Surely he must know I can’t move too quickly or I’ll lose my balance again?  He needs to move! In an effort to move my arse away from his nether regions I wobble, and the unfortunate result is that I essentially gyrate against him.  Well this is awkward. I’ve just sexually assaulted my snowboarding instructor. Great.   Finally Luke moves in front of me (if you ask me he takes a little too long to move), taking both my hands to guide me down the slope.

“That’s great Natalie”

Oh brilliant.  Now he remembers my name!  (I wouldn’t have minded if I’d been known as Nicola-The-Butt-Wiggler because at least then I could have claimed that clearly it wasn’t me as my name is Natalie.)  I make my slow descent, ignoring the fact that the kids who started their lesson at the same time as me, now look like pros, and I still haven’t made it down the slope unaided. Luke lets me travel the last few meters of slope on my own...Oooh! I’m doing it!  I’m actually doing it!

Splat.

Ok I’m not doing it. I’ve finished doing it.  I will do it no more.  Instructor number two (I didn’t catch his name) appears from nowhere and picks me up.  I think I’m done now.  After nearly three hours, I don’t think my body can take any more bumps and bruises.  I look at him, my eyes pleading.

“I’d like to have a grande latte now with a shot of vanilla” I beg him. 

Thankfully I think he can see I’m done for the day as he doesn’t force me to finish the last fifteen minutes of the lesson.   

I head back to the changing room, and as I get into my dry clothes I realise I’ve forgotten to bring a pair of dry knickers. Fabulous!  I guess I’ll be going home commando then!  I meet Jonesy in the changing rooms.  She’s been getting some practice in while I’ve had my lesson.  She asks me if I’ve enjoyed it.  I tell her no.  But that’s only because I’m not already amazing at it.  I don’t like doing things that I’m not automatically good at.  It doesn’t mean I’m not going to get good at it though.  I’m already thinking of my schedule for July to see where I could squeeze another lesson in.  Did I enjoy it?  In hindsight I guess it was fun.  My calves, thighs and pride disagree with me, but they’ll shut up in a day or so.  Now, after a few hours in wet gloves, my nails are ruined, so if you’ll excuse me I’m off to give myself a mini-mani.  Wish me luck for the next lesson!

New Job, New Shoes!

Clothes ironed? Check.

Lunch made? Check.

New shoes polished? Check.

Glass of wine for my nerves? Double check! 

I started my new job this week, and sitting there, going through my pre-work checks made me feel like it was the first day of school.  Minus the wine of course.  I didn’t drink wine before my first day at school...vodka was my weapon of choice in those days (sighs wistfully). 

Waking up on the morning of my first day was exciting.  I have never been this organised.  At Bra Towers I would just throw on a leggings and top combo, or my jeans and Ugg boots, jump in the car bleary eyed, and make the long slow journey to work.  An hour’s commute was the norm, and so I’d leave it until the very last moment to get up, ensuring that I stopped off at Nero’s for a caffeine hit on the way.  At my new job, I only have a ten minute commute, meaning I have time to watch a bit of Daybreak, have a cup of tea and wake up gently.  It’s a novel concept for me!  I was also kind of excited about the more business-like dress code at my new job.  Being in front of customers all day means I have to at least try and look professional, whereas with next to no contact with customers in my previous job, it was über casual.  It’s been so long since I’ve had to look smart, most of my work trousers are the ones I had from when I was three stone heavier, so I have invested in some nice work clothes.  I also fell in love with some black patent court shoes from Next which were a steal at £28.00. 

I put a lot of thought into the heel height.  This is an important issue for me.  I’m a walking (or falling) disaster on heels, particularly if they’re stilettos.  It must be something about the way I clomp about in shoes, but I cannot seem to stay steady on them.  I’m nervous in heels, and in fact the only time I’m able to master them is after a bottle of White Zinfandel, a few Malibu and Diet Cokes and at least one Jaegerbomb, which results in me throwing caution to the wind!  Sober and I’m a liability.  I was therefore delighted to find shoes with a small two and a half inch pyramid heel, (much better for stability) and at a price that I thought was more than reasonable....I was not however quite so delighted after around three hours wear, when the blister’s that had formed on my little toes had grown so large, they’d actually developed their own personalities.  What made it worse is that these blisters hadn’t turned into nice skin welts.  They were pious little nagging bastards, who wanted to make me hobble around for the rest of the day.  I have learned my lesson though...no matter how un-sexy they are, or how much it offends me that you generally only see them on women over the age of fifty – pop socks are a must if I want to continue wearing these shoes!

I opted for flats today (my second day) to give my poor tootsies chance to recover.  I can’t help but feel this was a wise move, because the last thing my colleagues want to hear is me whinging about my sore feet, and I think customers would think I was mental if I “Ooh” “Aaghed” my way across the showroom, (did I mention I’ve moved from bras to cars?  Bit of a leap product wise...I’ve gone from cup sizes to engine sizes in one easy move), and my new colleagues actually applauded me on my sensible shoe decision!  I’m going to be wearing a skirt tomorrow, so unfortunately I’ll have to brave the heels again, but I’m sure with a little wearing, and some perseverance on my part, they’ll soon be the comfiest shoes I own (??!).  In the meantime, while I settle in, I’ll just have to make a small tweak to my pre-work checks...

Clothes ironed? Check.

Lunch made? Check.

New shoes polished? Check.

Blister plasters packed? Triple check!

The Call Back

So when I left my job at bra towers, I knew I was taking a risk.  No other job lined up to go to, just some time to myself and the hope that a potential employer would be ready and waiting to snap me up.  Some may call this reckless, or even deluded...I liked to call it, optimistic.

I’ve spent the last two weeks, in and out of interviews, sending numerous applications off, but also taking a long hard look at my skills, and what I love doing.  I actually love doing this – writing, but could I make a career out of it?  Probably not – there are far more talented writers out there, who won’t ever get a look in on that front, so it would be a little daft to assume I could ever do this as anything more than a hobby.

I would have loved to have gone into Marketing and used my writing skills there.  When I was at college we visited the head office of the long haul tour operator Kuoni as part of a residential trip.  I loved the idea of being the person who was sent out to the various resorts and hotels, to write about each location, and the merits of choosing this as a holiday destination.  Marketing is tough to get into with no qualifications though, and at my heart I know I’ve always had a real passion for customer service.. The idea of getting back into this appealed to me massively, so I took a chance and applied for a couple of positions that I thought I could shine in.

And now here I am.  I’ve picked up a voicemail from one of the potential employers asking me to contact them...which I do immediately.  Dammit, the chap who interviewed me has gone into a meeting – can he ring me back in half an hour? “Of course!” I trill, as my bowels turn to mush.  Is he calling to offer me the job?  Is it a rejection call?  I’ll be gutted if it is, I really wanted this job.  I sit nervously in my PJ’s (I'm lead to understand this is the daytime attire of many unemployed people, so for the moment, it’s the look I’m going with).  I could go and get changed I suppose, but I don’t want to miss the phone again. Hmm perhaps I’ll make myself some breakfast?  My stomach flips in protest. For the love of God do not consume any food, because there’s a strong likelihood that I will reject it immediately, and I’m not guaranteeing from which end I’ll be making it leave!!  For once, I listen to my gut (literally) and push the thought of breakfast out of my mind.

Bleugh!  This is torture, honestly, why am I putting myself through this?  I liked my old job...I loved my old colleagues...I’m starting to question whether stepping out of my comfort zone was such a good idea?!  Hmm, if he’s calling to offer me the job I’m going to have to buy some work wear...I’ve been used to not being in a customer facing role for quite some time.  I don’t think skinny jeans and a top are going to cut it.  Actually, now I think about it, I quite like the idea of power dressing for work.  Knowing me though I’d forget to scuff the bottoms of my new work shoes and make my grand entrance by going arse over tit on their shiny tiled floor with a rather undignified splat.  Doesn’t matter how well dressed you are in you’re as uncoordinated as I am in heels.

How long has it been now?  Gah, I can’t take the suspense any longer, I may have to call him and tell him to hurry up calling me back...erm no, that’s probably wouldn’t get me off on the right foot.  Aaargh! I don’t even get this wound up waiting for men to call me back after dates!  What is wrong with me?!  I just want him to caaaaall Briiiing!  Oh crap!  That’s him!  I don’t want to answer!  Jeeez I’m indecisive today!  But what if he says you’re a pile of crap and we don’t want you? Briiiing!  Deep breath in, mental slap across the face...Actual slap across the face because the mental one did nothing to calm my hysteria. Posh telephone voice at the ready...

“Hello?”

Ten minutes later and I’m doing a victory dance around the living room.  I’ve been offered the job!  I am the candidate extraordinaire!  I can leap buildings in single bound!  I’m faster than a speeding bullet! I’m...ouch! Oh bollocks, I’m definitely not eighteen any more so I certainly shouldn’t be dancing like this.  I think I’ve just popped a hip. Dancing aside though...this is exciting!  My venture into the unknown is taking me in a direction I didn’t expect to be going, and it feels bloody brilliant.  Right, best get the Scooby gang together for some celebratory drinks!  Congratulations me! :-D