Oops

Occasionally, I adopt a fantastic ability to merge the grim reality of an alarm clock shaking it's fierce intrusive sound waves at ludicrously anti-social hours of the morning, with a beautifully deepened delirious sleep. And it was this particular morning, just scrapings of seemingly seconds after I'd collapsed my partied pulse into the inviting cloud of a comfy bed that I'd enabled this incorporation of two alarm clocks into my subconscious. It was only after an hour of snoozing + entertaining the idea that the alarm clocks signified a first prize in a downhill ski competition, that the panic stricken reality of the fact that I was an hour late to do an arguably pointless, yet crucially and impeccably important bread run to a chalet full of poshos made itself apparent to me in my catastrophically hung over state. The mini bus was parked in a safely less-snow riddled place, but sensibly + conveniently far away from my over-the-limit scrambled stumbling self, grappling around grabbing snow clothes + diving straight into them in a desperate attempt to embark on this impossibly sickened mission to keep the rich people in croissants. Legging it up into the village, zigzagging across the lethal sheet iced road and going about my daily banter in the Boulangerie with a highly excited woman called Valerie was proving to be an excruciating challenge- but then I hadn't even thought about the logistics of running back the way I came and beyond, to the destination Chalet , with arms full of breaded products in the pissing snow. So, stomping like a befuddled elephant in my ginormous inhospitable snow boots full in the knowledge that time was sliding away just as quickly as the hundreds of mini avalanches cascading on the brim full steep surroundings of Mont Blanc and her fine sisters I thought I'd better pick up the pace. Icy roads also imply similarly slippy stairways, but it was of no surprise that my warped wondering mind would forget to pay homage to this imperative risk assessment; it didn't matter how much I thought I was clutching on to the increasing soggy-ing bundle of baguettes, or how sure I was of my rhythmic determined strides, I still went flying. Dumd'dumdumdumd'dum, all the way down, patisseries flying in every imaginable direction, arse riquoshading + introducing itself fully to each sneering step. Now drenched in sweat, mud, slush, last night's lipstick kisses + segments of whimpering bread for a family who are sure to have my head on a plate for breakfast instead of a sack of soggy croissants, I had eventually reached the climax of my sad excuse journey and scurried up a steep driveway whilst indulging in one long fearsome gulp of dread, before knocking on the door.

It was going to be a long morning?