Only 5 Shades of Grey

I brought the snow home with me as well as another boiler breakdown, which the lodgers and cost centres can’t have been too enamoured by. It takes two days to get the Kerry based service engineer to have another look. This time it’s my thermostat he says, nothing to do with him, but he’ll disconnect it.

‘But,’ I say, ‘what about the expansion valve inside that you said was causing the pressure to drop,’

‘Oh, yes,’ well I can’t get at it, your cupboard, the boiler and the pipe work would have to come out, it’s a day’s work, very expensive.’

‘But I’ve no heating or hot water,’ my teeth chatter.

‘You need a plumber to put an expansion valve in your hot press.’

But I thought he was a plumber. He gets it going again for me but it won’t work on a timer, I’ll be legging it down to the kitchen at 6am to turn it on so the princes and princelings will arise from their slumber in relative warmth, as is their birthright.

I’m only writing a boring boiler blog because they emailed me a bill straight after, that would bring the non-repairs to 400 euro so far. In a departure from my usual indignation, I wrote and explained that I didn’t think this was fair. The thing is they have my VISA number and can charge the cost straightaway.

Well blow me, if I didn’t get an email back, agreeing with me, and apologising, saying it was sent in error.

I am not over the shock.

Now with a bit of heat, and the skiing cut short, there is no excuse but to plough on with Edit Eight of my novel. I am doing this in response to a lengthy analysis I received from a well known publisher, who enjoyed it but said it wasn’t for them. I’ve been going through it with a fine comb, trying to figure what bits weren’t for them. Maybe the fact that it has only 5 shades of grey? After being asked by sailing men all last summer was there any sex in the book, I had to put in five scenes, indoor, outdoor, upstairs, downstairs, and I can’t remember the last place.

It has been the longest edit so far as, of course, I’ve been blogging all the time and landladying, composing endless CV’s, riding and well a few hours skiing and all that takes quite a bit of prep and packing.

It’s Easter Saturday, Absentee Boyfriend delivered an unseemly gigantic chocolate egg, a sight for sore eyes, both of them. Is it churlish to wonder does he know that if I ate it, there would be six inches of girth added to my middle and that’s not such a good look. Or that big chocolate egg does not equal an actual date, like going out, but as gestures go, as he departs for the airport yet again, it goes in the ‘thoughtful’ pile.

A Swiss Easter Bunny

I spent Good Friday with Blonde Racquel (because we Irish have to go somewhere for an illicit drink, just to outdo the system) and we got to talking about books we liked, my book club is long dissolved and when writing a novel, there are only certain books that can be read to avoid distraction or worse, desperation. Racquel has promised to read my final draft. She will be one of only five friends to read it before publication and so it spurred me on to lash into the last bit this evening. When you ask someone to read your manuscript, you budding authors out there, give them a simple job, two questions:

Where does it slow down, make them yawn?

Do they spot any continuity lapses, ie. drinking tea when the character started with coffee…

They’re not necessarily proof-reading it, but if they want to, that’s very helpful. They’re not expected to correct your grammar either.

Which brings me to the marketing bit; I met an A&R man at a launch a few weeks ago. He said he used to work for Sony and EMI, but he’s freelance now. I said it sounded like a great job, why did he leave? ‘They didn’t need me anymore.’

Cheekily I asked if I’d know any of the acts he discovered. ‘The Corrs,’ he replied.

Heard of them.

He told me he gets a lot of his work online now, through Linkedin.

‘Are you serious? I’m on that and I never get work from it.’

I explained what I did while he yawned (architectural historian, art historian, building conservation, that kind of thing)

But, I said I don’t do much of that anymore what with no money in the country and all. ‘I’ve written my first novel,’ I say.

‘So why don’t you change your profile and say what you’re doing now?’ he asks reasonably.

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that,’ I reply in dismay, ‘I only want to share that when I’ve published.’

‘So, let me get this, you’ve done something new, finished a book, but don’t want to tell any of your 500 contacts about it, because in fact they might even know the perfect person to publish it…’

A hail of pennies drop…

Hmmm, I see his point. I’m trying to do the traditional, in your dreams sort of thing, be discovered with my first book, when it rarely, I believe, happens like that. I contacted +Helen Shaw of +Athena Media to find out how I'm going to get it out there, she's got a day course running in April, we shall she how I get on.

So, I’m going to get brave about this. Even though it’s sitting on two agents desks in the UK, they are mighty slow to come back to me. And time is ticking, banks are waiting, and frankly I want to write another one, a funny, thriller this time.

Happy Easter

Walking in a Winter Wonderland, in Spring

Absentee or Long Suffering Boyfriend says he’s taking control of the situation, no way was I going to be allowed to ski and the skis are going back to the rental shop.

‘I’ll be fine by Wednesday’ I assure him. He’s not in the least perturbed, but, sadly says there is no point staying in a ski hotel if we’re not skiing. We can drive somewhere else I helpfully recommend, have car will travel, I think. I can see he’s already diverting back to work. If I had a few bob and no job, well that is half the case, I’d drive to Lake Como and be there in time for Easter when the season opens in the middle of the lake, or Venice where there’s bound to be some carnival atmosphere, and let the lodgers and cost centres take over the bills.

There’s a short train ride from Davos to Klosters, it’s on my itinerary, and we might not have got there if we skied each day. It’s also a 24km ski run, which is a bit much even without an injury.

I’m expecting to find somewhere spectacular; this is where Princess Diana came with her boys, and where all those other royal skiers get papped in Winter. The train trundles through pine forests sloping dramatically on both sides, glimpses of frozen lakes appear, ABF keeps saying he can’t believe there’s so much snow this time of year, there’s usually green fields by the end of March. We arrive in Klosters and guess what? The streets are empty, as are the bars and restaurants. We go in search of a quintessentially pretty Alpine bistro; there are none open for lunch, probably only high on the slopes. Most buildings have classic Alpine character, unlike Davos, making it at least a pretty place to visit. I had wanted a stroll around Klosters and I’m certainly getting that in the search taking us to all ends of the town, hobble, hobble.

I’m beginning to think Dublin is as vibrant and alive as they say in Failte Ireland adverts.

I have morphed into a restaurant critic, but since I’ve left landladyland all I’ve done is eat and drink and fall. And I’m not even here forty eight hours.

We decide on the Bars (Bears) Bistro in the Piz Buin hotel and agree it’s the kind of hotel we’d prefer to stay in. Very hip detail. Of course, we’ve missed the lunch window and have to opt for pizza. It was, without doubt, the most feathery light, even healthy, pizza ever seen or tasted. So there’s the place to eat next time you’re in Klosters with the Middleton Classes.

Back in Davos I meet Mr Tel Aviv again, I’ve emerged from a massage and he is waiting to go in. The masseur did something to help my knee and certainly seemed happy there was nothing broken.

Tel Aviv and I chat idly in our bathrobes; he tells me they’re doing retail therapy in Zurich the following day. He seems really pleased about that – men who like to shop, that must be another unusual Israeli trait? He says the skiing wasn’t great, low visibility and wind chill. I’m pleased, as Absentee Boyfriend assured me the same, we wouldn’t have been skiing much on our second or third day even if I hadn’t fallen. Always good to see the glass nearly full to the top, I say.

I’m due to meet ABF for a visit to the sauna; I’ve brought my swimsuit as instructed and go looking for him, it’s not the kind of thing you want to do, open sauna doors and peer inside. Especially when the occupants are fully naked.

Oh, dear, I’m going to look like an eejit in a swimsuit. Well they weren’t exactly super models in there so off it comes and one just gets on with it. Quite easy really. ABF tells me my return flight is booked for the following evening. Oh dear yet again, we’re not even here forty-eight hours, which I point out and then start singing ‘48 hours in Davos’ to the tune of ‘24 hours to Tulsa’. He’s only slightly amused; I think it’s my pitch rather than my humour. We are alone in the sauna by the way.

You can cook your own horse at the table

Later we go in search of some famous steakhouse in Davos Platz, back on the bus again. It’s called Ochsen as in Oxen. I haven’t done this before, cooked my own steak on a piece of stone in front of me. White bibs are tied around our necks and off we go. I simply had to photograph the menu with all the horse dishes and was expecting a rap on the knuckles by the surly waiter, who wasn’t impressed at the arrival of late diners. My eye was drawn to the horse filet steak at 37 Swiss Francs compared to the beef filet at 48 Swiss Francs. Not as wide a difference as the burger meat processers would have us believe.

It’s Argentinian rib-eye beef for him and American filet for me. Now, I was sure most of Europe was buying Irish grass-fed, open grazing beef these days. The indoor grain fed American variety is tougher, but very flavoursome as it turns out.

We’re still not here 48 hours and it’s the last night. We venture up the town for a nightcap, there are really gorgeous wine bars here, but still empty. I guess they make the most of it in January when the politeratti and regalatti are in abundance.  

Ernst Ludwig Kirchner 'View of Davos'

We make it to the Kirchner museum next day and a heavenly snowy walk. The German Expressionist artist, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner was one of the founders of the Die Brucke (The Bridge – between academic art of the past and modernism) movement; he’s also one of the artists labelled Degenerate by Hitler. The collection is in a purpose built modern gallery which conveys his range of woodcuts, oils, timber sculpture and tapestry really effectively, over a life time dogged by mental illness. There is a wonderfully vivid streetscape of Davos in the 1920’s which shows the town before the very pedestrian high-rise blocks went up. As far as town planning is concerned, I thought we were the worst culprits in Europe. We’re not. And, believe it or not, I am a historic building planning consultant, nothing pleases me more than an old wall.

Later in the day, we’re back at Zurich airport, ABF will take a train south and I have four hours before my flight. Time flies as I grapple with the duty-free conscientious decision. A carton of cigarettes for distribution, or not. At less than 4 euro a pack I know many takers.  Conscience takes over, especially as I haven’t been tempted to partake in four days.

I still have the relic of the boom days, a Gold Circle Card which I’ve had to pay for by giving up points rather than earning points. When there’s a four hour wait the luxury of a lounge with wi-fi, armchairs, let’s face it, free wine and hot food, I think Zurich is one of the last to do the hot food, helps take the sting out of not being able to shop. I thought there’d be lots of quiet moments on this trip where I could continue the tenth edit of my novel. It’s been such a short time, not even 72 hours and I try to catch up on editing in the lounge. Not a good plan, a novel takes some serious head space and concentration, even to re-craft a sentence. So I start writing blogs of course. And remember to text the cost centres to tell them I’m on my way home, give them time to sort the mess before I hobble in.

At the boarding gate I’m reminded of the article by Melanie Reid in last Saturday’s Times’ magazine, she broke her neck and back falling from a horse in 2010 and writes The Spinal Column about the experience. Last week she was being moved from her hospital bed to a wheelchair for the first time in over two years. She felt lucky to be sitting in a wheelchair. When you have two injuries, you’re glad you don’t have three, she says, and would put up with having one. As I see two other skiers (I guess) in wheelchairs with black eyes and slings. I agree, a short trip was cut shorter and a couple of sprains are not a lot to put up with. I had a great time and now I’m looking forward to my own bed.

Appreciating the High Life

I hobble and pound on to the funicular, it’s quite a knack in ski boots and torn ligaments, I wonder how long it will take to recover. This was day one, what will we do for the next three days? The problem with a ski accident is that it leaves the other person with nothing to do, unless they ski alone, which Absentee Boyfriend isn’t interested in doing as he has ample time to ski in his own Canton. Three of us are standing in the carriage, there are no seats, in busy times you pile in, grip your skis, poles and remain stoic.

A fresh-faced, attractive woman hears our accents and strikes up a conversation. She’s from Toronto but living in Tel Aviv. 

‘I do this once a year for my husband’s sake, and I hate it,’ she says. She’s the second woman I’ve heard say that recently, the other is in a very wealthy marriage, says she even hates the snow, not just the skiing.

If I had a husband who wanted me to accompany him sailing, skiing, hiking, touring, generally sharing time off, I’d be with him in a flash.

Some resorts are better than others for skiing, especially if you just want to waltz down gentle slopes in sunshine, like me. This lovely lady says they prefer Lech in Austria, but couldn’t get a hotel as it’s Easter week. Same as us. Actually the hotels in Lech have lost five customers because their prices were ridiculously exorbitant if you went for a portion of a week. So it’s economy driven that we’re all in Davos. She’s left her daughter in Israel because she’s in the army. Although she doesn’t look old enough to have an eighteen year old daughter, having one in the army isn’t every mother’s dream.

We get to the ski room and take a look at the injuries; her husband has now joined us and says I need an x-ray. ‘Are you a doctor?’ I ask hopefully. ‘No,’ he smiles but goes on to tell us he’s been to Ireland; he flew to Cork and Kerry. 

‘He’s a pilot,’ his wife adds helpfully.

‘What airline are you with?’ I ask, as if it makes a difference.

‘None, flew my own plane,’ he adds, ‘the working class,’ he laughs.

I’m not quite sure what was supposed to be funny about that. I think it was Jewish humour, dry and ironic, the kind that makes Seinfeld popular.

We all agree there isn’t much atmosphere in Davos Dorf. We’ll just have to make our own. The lovely wife is going to spend the following day at the hotel avoiding the now misty slopes. I think we'll be going to Klosters, it's a must. I'd love to talk to her more, as a writer I want all sorts of unique information about life in Tel Aviv. I’ve been there once as a plus one for a conference, the only scary bit is the airport, the machine guns, the uniforms...

I strap up my knee and later we take the free bus to Davos Platz. There were times when a taxi would have been waiting; even ABF is doing public transport now.

Davos Platz is where the big economic forum convenes and has lots of lovely shops that would have been painful to pass every day so I’m glad we’re on the outskirts with nothing but a church bell to distract us. It’s a much older town with winding, sloping streets, the kind that are challenging with a torn ligament. We find the restaurant ABF remembered; the best Italian in the region, Ristorante Parma it’s called. I insisted on asking the hotel to make a reservation, at least be sure it’s open. We’ve had an experience in Ibiza when a hotel sent us to a remote restaurant nearly an hours drive away and it turned out to be hosting a private wedding. The taxi driver was gone and we had to wait two hours for another one to pick us up. They wouldn’t even allow us buy a drink. Two hours pacing a beach at night, no food or drink. I wanted to hit the receptionist over the head, she hadn’t phoned.

A table barbecue of seafood at Parma, Davos Platz

The streets of Davos are deserted and every wine bar or pub we pass is empty. This cosy restaurant only has a few diners but has all the atmosphere of somewhere that’s been hosting great food for fifty years. Injuries disappear as I realise how special this short time away is. ABF’s order of seafood arrives on a cauldron, to be barbecued at the table.The host is in his eighties and is very proud of his offering, his wife is the head waitress. In my experience, only in mainland Europe do you find such pride in family-run restaurants, where being a waiter is a lifetime career and not something to do during college.

His seafood looks great and tastes great eventually, but ABF's worn out with the peeling and shelling. I can never remember what I eat, I'm so caught up in talking, listening and looking, I think it was snails again. It feels like being far, far away from landladyland and that’s the main thing.

Snow White and Rose Red

The bells that never stopped tolling

I've said goodbye to the lodgers and the cost centres, none of us believed I'd actually get going.

The boarding gate was closing. There was no sign of Absentee Boyfriend, I had no idea where we were staying or how we'd get there at the other end, I even contemplated letting the plane takeoff and quietly returning home. I haven't left the country in over six months, another six months won't make any difference.

The phone rang, 'Howya? I'm on the escalator.'
'Where have you been?' I quietly enquire (not)

'Buying you something.'
What has come over him, I wonder.
He arrives with sushi for the plane, which makes him sound exotic and sophisticated, he probably is, but it's not that obvious. He's just allergic to wheat and airplane food seeing as he sees so much of it. He'd also visited the Sunglass Hut.
'I bought you a pair.'

My current pair are like the base of a bad frying pan, scratched and smeared. I can take hours or days trying to decide on sunglasses, whatever about choosing flowers or chocolates, a man choosing sunglasses is destined for disaster. I'm afraid to open the box, because I doubt if anyone else could choose a pair that would suit one's face, never mind fit it.

I check them out in the metal cubicle on the plane. Well, I take it all back, perfect, big black ones. He could be a keeper.

ABF decided to hire a car as the flight lands too late for us to catch a train. Zurich airport is a very handy one for transfers as long as you land by 7.30pm. I hate driving abroad, especially at  night from an airport, but he says he has it covered.

'No worries I've a great nav,' he says.
Good for him, carrying a mobile nav device, I think, and as we're about to disembark,I ask what sort of nav gadget it is.
'She's sitting beside me,' he laughs..
OMG, maps and holidays, recipe for disaster on a 2 hour drive. I tried to find the airport wi-fi while he sorted the paperwork and photographed the directions on my iPad screen, all fifteen twists and turns before even getting out of the city.

Thankfully, there was a GPS in the BMW and while ABF sorted his seat I asked a guy in the carpark to turn the gadget to English. We typed in Davos and from then I just had to keep my eyes on the screen. I'd say that device could have saved many a marriage in the past. I remember with horror trying to direct my ex-husband into central Paris, while he was driving a right-hand car.

We arrive at our destination, midnight, starving, but talking, even laughing. There's no food to be had in the hotel, so we might as well devour the two bars of caramel and sea salt I'd brought for emergencies.

Day One, I feel more in tune with Mrs Moneypenny, as I sit here in Davos, though there isn't a  world leader in sight, only the photos in the hotel lobby to give away its famous World Economic Forum in January. It feels like a 15 mile street of interconnected towns all called Davos something. The main town is Davos Platz, we're in Davos Dorf, there's a Davos Wolfgang and the main ski lift is right next to the hotel, that makes a big difference.

I wouldn't really call it a ski resort, it's a working town with a ski lift. The annual global conference is based on putting the world to rights and giving Bono a chance to catch up with Queen Rania of Jordan, while the other delegates get over Christmas and have a bit of a knees up in the Alps. There is a hangover of world peace in the air.

I'm excited at the idea of being in the snow capped mountains, but nervous I might have forgotten how to ski. ABF has been here a few times and seems to know where he's going, the moment you have confidence in someone, great possibilities materialise. I follow him in a snow plough and gently get back into the turns.

I ski somewhat  uneffortlessly, but stay up, those Body and Mind classes in UCD help, all those hip openers and excruciating weight bearing downward dog exertions come in handy on a slope.

After a couple of hours, no falls or faltering, we ski to lunch, we're one of the last to arrive, more stalwart skiers have kept to a logical timetable. We spend a lot of time choosing wine and there is something lost in translation. ABF's gesture of a glass is interpreted as a small bottle, a half bottle of rose and a red arrive, we say nothing and carry on. Maybe we'll just ski straight to the train and save the skiing for the following day, he says.

We're the last to leave and ours are the only skis outside in the snow, time for a photo I say as I replace my helmet with a fetching russian furry hat 'We'll get one tomorrow,' he says and heads towards the train.

'Could we not just do one more run?' I ask, feeling fuelled by my glass of red. 'If you really want to, are you up to it?' he asks with concern.

'Of course,' I call, as the helmet swings annoyingly from my backpack, I think it might be handier to put it back on my head and stuff the hat into my jacket.

This time skiing effortlessly down towards the middle station with his nibs calling behind and telling me when to turn as I can't see the difference between the piste and the deep powder. I ignore him for a second and sail off piste, my skis cross and twist my knee backwards, head is bashed and bounced, oh no I've only just put on my new sunglasses instead of the goggles. That is the first thing I think of as I hurtle over and over, downward and slide deeper to the side, Then, I think, good job I put the helmet on as I feel my head bouncing. Other skiers and ABF hover over me to assess the damage, I can't move my right leg and my right thumb feels like its been prised out of its socket and flicked back in the wrong place

I ask ABF to take off my left ski, the right one is somewhere along the way, and I lie prone in the snow, afraid to move in case I've broken something more serious than my leg. I know its not far to the station, so I could possibly hobble. I gently lift my head and see pink spots stain the snow where I lay, I seem to have a nose bleed or a cut somewhere on my face, ABF looks concerned, afterwards he confided he didn't know how to tell me.  There was a trail of drops, making the snow turn pink.

Oh no, I thought, our first day and this happens, shouldn't have risked it, I'm visualising a Swiss clinic now, a gash in the head and no dinner. I manage to stand with some help. And then the two of us say it at the same time....

'The f--king red wine,' the whiteness turns blue with his expletives and laughter.  Before we left the restaurant I'd asked the waiter to put a cork in my red as I couldn't even finish the half bottle. It was in my back pack, leaking.

Like getting back on a horse, I have to wedge my boot into the skis again and make the last descent, it takes forever to get the boot in, I don't know how this  man manages to encourage me quietly each time as I slip. The thumb is definitely broken as far as I'm concerned.

All through the day, ABF is Patience Personified, feel free to look upon him as LSBF. Long Suffering Boyfriend, after this.
And that is how the fairytale ended.....

Davos, where Ernst Ludwig Kirchner painted until he died

Lashes of Fun

Racquel’s cost centre #2 is a beautiful girl and on the side she does a good line in eyelash extensions, she has very kindly offered to do one for me as an experiment. Not an indulgence I’d ever have countenanced, on a par with false nails and Brazilians. Mind you I’ve tried one of those and I won’t say which.

Not being accustomed to girl grooming in the house, when CC#2 Girl Version arrived via her lashful mother I’d no idea what I was letting myself in for. First of all girls talk, about, like, OMG, random, things. The first good news is that I have, like, actual lashes, they’re just very fine (and I know very blonde, like a rabbits, only they’re already dyed, yes this is over, over doing it, but I’m a sucker for research). The second thing is I’m allowed lie down on the sofa with a blanket and close my eyes, not, mind, squeeze them or inhale the glue. An hour later, having learned a great deal about young women and their aspirations, I try to open my eyes, apparently most women find this easy, only I think I’ve got double conjunctivitis. In the midst of all this I hear the front door opening, cost centre #2 I call, obviously not those actual words, as he’d think I was a ditz, everyone is anonymous on this blog, but it turns out to be Lodger #1.

A bit disconcerted with me prostrate on the sofa and young female hovering over my head, I try to introduce them, in vain, and being a good hostess, create the link, ‘remember the girl date, this is her daughter, she’s doing something with my eyes.’

I hear a faint grunt of full-on embarrassment as he retreats as fast as he can.

Alicia, for that is nearly her name, says we’re done here. I leg it up to my bathroom for there is no way I’m prising my eyes open unless I can see what they look like myself.

Imagine a very early Bond movie, there’s a pale blonde with a sort of cat’s eye wing going on, all I need is a chiffon negligee and fluffy kitten heels, maybe it’s more Bewitched, as in the wrinkly mother of Samantha. I stifle a scream, the workmanship is faultless it’s just that I’m not the right vehicle for this look – going skiing.

Alicia tries to pacify me with a scissors and snips some of the fluttery side lashes. More, cut more, I plead. No, I’m not cutting anymore you’ll have none left.

She leaves. I pace. If a butterfly fluttering its wings in Japan can cause a tsunami in San Francisco or whatever, this will cause an avalanche in the Alps. I fidget and pluck a few off only to make the entire thing worse.

Lodger #1 is ready for his Friday night out. Taxi ordered, suited and booted. We meet in the kitchen and I explain why I’m pulling bits of glue from my eyes and the benefits of this sort of procedure. Economically, it is one of the most expensive salon treatments, especially if you go for mink. ‘Mink’ he squeals, and we ponder whether we should open up a salon ourselves. Half an hour later his taxi still hasn’t arrived, him not being of the Hailo persuasion. It dawns on me I can do a good deed and say I’ll drive. I’m being Cinderella again and as I’ve been taxi for ex husband today I’ll go one more. We drive into town and he’s highly amused, saying he’s going to put me on Tripadvisor, great landlady, taxi service provided, until I tell him I was up on a B&B website recently offering day trips to Glendalough.

‘What? I didn’t get that included in my package!’

Dublin Airport here I come.