Four things I've learnt from my first month as an seasonaire

It's been a fun month that's for sure. It started with formal handshakes, polite laughing at shit jokes and civilised glasses of wine. However soon turned into kittkatting , drunken ice skating, absinthe, snogging 50 year old Austrians, and ,for some people, even pissing on your own bedroom floor.

1. Mastering the art of domestic goddess(dom)

So there are six of us that work in the hotel. We have Robyn the Irish face licker, the star gazer Billy, the flamboyant animal trainer Scott, two pint Rachel and of course, not forgetting, Mrs Sarah Peanut. Together we make each other's day bearable as we put the world to rights with a polished tap and a watermark free shower. Forget the Red cross in Syria, forget UNICEF keeping African orphans warm, forget Nelson Mandela's 24 year struggle for racial equality. There is nothing more satisfying, rewarding and IMPORTANT than a smear free sink and a pillow lean with a 140 degree angle.

The standards of cleanliness are great for guests, but they are frustratingly strict . Last week I got called back to a room because I hadn't turned all the guest's toiletries around so the label was facing outwards. Just in case Mother dearest forgot what brand her toothpaste was.

Despite the moaning and groaning, we've all learnt a lot. I now know that glass cleaner can get anything clean, baths are a hotbed of pubes and need to be cleaned daily and that the spawn of Satan is chrome. I can't even look at my own chrome toilet roll holder without recoiling and giving it a quick rub down with a used make-up wipe . The amount of finger marks they get is disgusting and I certainly won't be having such a devious surface in my own home.

I can now clean a room and bathroom in fifteen minutes, fold towels in a creative way and make any bed, (even a middle aged, 25 years of marriage, she's banging the butler, affectionless one) look homely and inviting.

                                                              The team (minus Mrs Peanut and I)

2. How to drink responsibly

Apart from the snow, alcohol seems to be what most people's world revolves around on season. The past few weeks have taught me a lot about my body and the way it works. I remember my first night, like a niave fresher or Bambi leaping through a field before his mother died, I was care free and didn't realise how the easily the world can shit on you. I thought I could participate in early evening drinking. With a vodka in each hand and a gluhwein on my mind I stumbled over to the Beach Boys concert and got suitably intoxicated. You know that feeling when your sat on a porta loo bellowing out 'god only know's what i'd be with out you' to a girl you met 72 hours ago, and you know it's time to go home? Imagine the despair when you say your goodbyes, think about warming up that pasta bake at home and realise it is 19:30 and you can't even remember whether Lauren and Will are boyfriend and girlfriend or father and son. Even gender became ambiguous that night.

After dealing with the world's most crushing hangover and a bank account that had been inappropriately beaten, groped and fondled, I decided to change my ways. It was trial and error, but I learnt three glasses of wine is certainly enough, Jagger and milk is not good for my bowels and to stick to Beer if I want to have a conversation without sounding like Stephen Hawking. I used to blame my bruised knees after a night out on my heels, but after falling down a flight of stairs in my sturdy snow boots, I might need to apologise to the countless pairs of shoes I have slandered in the past. It wasn't you, it was me.

From passing out on kitchen floors, being bitten by Austrian men, EXTRA MEAT, unwarranted midnight yoga displays from the world's smallest women, vomiting in night clubs, working on two hours sleep and whatever the hell happened on that hill on Billy's birthday, we've had it all. I fear it was even worse than 'the fishing trip' on Gavin and Stacy.

               Potter having a mare.

                                             The faithful night of 'the hill'. Billy's Birthday.

3. How to stay safe on the slopes

It took a grand total of four ski outings until I rolled down a hill and ended up in the doctors sobbing into a hospital bed as my boss gave the cliched male response to tears, the awkward patt on the back. With a sprained ligament and the foreboding conclusion that it would take six weeks to heel I hobbled back to work and continued to cry hysterically as if I was an orphaned Romanov princess. Turns out the prognosis was not so bad and I should be hopefully skiing this week. However, from the sidelines I have still managed to compile a few good pointers for the future.

                                          

                                           A rare picture of me on the slopes.

1. Always have your pockets zipped up. After a tumble you may suffer slight amnesia and think 'wow wonder where that phone, that is lying conveniently next to my ski, came from? '. No second thought will be given as you bumble on aloof and contactless.
2. Respect your stomach. Always chew pizza. Don't tarnish the snow with your un-mouthwashed breathe and bile. Harry. 
3. Keep at least a 30 meter distance from Mark at all times. To avoid paralysis.
4. Don't ski when drunk, don't ski in the dark . All valuable tips to avoid a sprained knee.
5. Look out for rocks. Lydia.
6. If your slow like me, get yourself a Polly -Pocket like friend who will wipe your tears, collect your polls, remind you to lift the chair lift up, and push the boundaries of your friendship by tricking you down runs way beyond your ability.

Polly P and I.

4. How to maintain a healthy balanced diet.

They say that skiing can burn up to 400 calories per hour. The Daily Mail add that you can lose up to 'five pounds a week, tone your stomach muscles and boost your immunity.' So a month in I'm wondering why I feel more Kerry Katona than Rihanna? Shit. Who knew you couldn't trust the Daily Mail anymore?

Anyway, Its safe to say i'm looking less like Moguly from the jungle book after my 12 week stint of bowel seizures and two hospital visits in Kathmandu. Everyday we are treated to a full English, lunch is nothing short of a carbohydrate rave and our staff dinner is merely a starter before the main course of duck, venison, apple strudel, chocolate brownie, truffle and cheese scraps.

But the real devil for chafing thighs and 3am self-loathing is the K kebab. What can be described as nothing less than heaven in a pitta, the edible form of Jesus even, has been the greatest love story to date (apart from Lydia and Harry, Larry). Bringing such sweet sweet ecstasy yet such bitter heartache.

I have had eight in a month and am currently the K kebab queen. A title this month, during dry January, I endeavour to relinquish. For 28 days I will attempt to not let a drop of the world's most succulent lamb, most mouthwatering yogurt mint sauce touch my lips. The money I will save on kebabs I'm going to donate to a charity in Nepal. Should be a total of around 35-40 euros. I'm considering setting up a just giving page. Details will follow.

                            These are four separate occasions and kebabs. All special in their own way.

So that's a summary of what's been happening in our little bubble of a ski resort and all the things i'm learning on this 'gap Yah' journey to self-fulfillment, inner peace and prosperity. I'm already looking forward to 2016 and hope it will be kebab free and allow me to finally master the art of cleaning bathtubs.

(Disclaimer: Mum, Dad and Nan the reference to kissing middle-aged Austrian men and urination outside of the bathroom, has not happened to me personally. I'm still only nearly burning down buildings with my cooking. No need to worry.)