The Limon Nieve (1984)

"Three more gin and beers!" exclaimed the barman, lining up six glasses on the bar.

The beer was San Miguel and the gin was neat, Helen was already so pissed that she found it difficult to perch on her bar stool. She slipped off again in a fit of hysterics.

"We have no more money," I explained to the short, jocular Spaniard behind the bar.

"Is okay," he shrugged, "you can do the washing up!"

He said that last night too, so I knew he didn't mean it. Our friendly barman seemed to have no ulterior motives for giving us free drinks: he seemed simply to enjoy watching us teenage girls get drunk and make fools of ourselves. Perhaps he was over-charging us for the drinks we paid for? I still hadn't got the hang of Pesetas.

This was our first holiday abroad without parental guidance and we were taking full advantage of the freedom it afforded us. There were a few teachers with us, but I only ever saw them at breakfast, when they would bark out an itinerary, which I would then completely disregard.

We were supposed to ski everyday, but I absolutely hated it. I had no choice for the first couple of days, as our vigilant Headmaster spotted me straggling and frog marched me towards the ski lift. On the third day, however, I was so hungover that I retched constantly during the terrifying cable car ride. I made it to the foot of the nursery slopes, struggling with skis and heavy boots, but then thought better of it and disappeared into the cafe to sip Fanta Limon and ogle the Spanish waiters. For the rest of the week, I employed my superpower of invisibility, honed by years of trying to avoid my dad's volcanic temper and predatory school bullies, and would sneak off somewhere more interesting than the snow blanketed pistes.

It was humilation which first drove us to the Limon Nieve. On the first night there was a fancy dress disco, attended by all the school groups staying in our hotel. This was a ridiculous idea, as the only 'fancy' dress we had with us were our salopettes, and there was no way I would be seen dead wearing those unflattering bifurcated sleeping bags. Instead, Helen, Kaz and I plumped for showing as much leg as possible: wearing only black tights, t-shirts, cats' ears constructed from paper napkins and eyebrow pencil whiskers. This proved to make us very unpopular and during the judging there was a cacophony of boos and catcalls of "slags!". We fled in disgrace to the seedy, smoke-filled sanctuary of the nearest bar.

Not the most salubrious of places, the Limon Nieve had a corrugated metal awning, below a painted sign depicting a family of cartoon lemons. Drinks crates were stacked up outside the doorway and dried sausages hung in meaty garlands over the bar. Grunty, shrug-shouldered, ancient locals were dotted here and there at formica tables, gesticulating with cigarette-clenched fingers. They didn't seem to mind that there were three screechy teenage girls hogging the stools in front of the bar, as they just shouted out their orders to the barman, who then delivered the drinks to their tables.

The Limon Nieve became our refuge and escape. Away from the watchful eye of the teachers, we could engage in our favourite pastime: drinking alcohol. It was the barman who suggested we drink "gin and beer" and although I hated the taste of both, I welcomed the numbing effect they produced in combination.

On the last day, it was the Limon Nieve that I was most sad to say goodbye to. Helen and I enjoyed a few gin and beers for the road. We left the bar very merry, having said our fond farewells to the jolly barman. Once in the glare of daylight, I felt disorientated and was completely confused when a teenage boy, I recognised as Helen's younger brother, handed me a pair of skis. He told me that they had to be returned urgently to the ski hire shop at the top of the steep hill. He had already returned Helen's skis for her, but as he wasn't my brother, delivering my skis to the Limon Nieve, was as much as he was prepared to help me.

Threatening to grass her up to their mum and dad, Helen's brother started to escort her away to the hotel, and I watched her drunken, flamenco dancing form, retreat down the hill. My skis suddenly seemed like the most unwieldy, burdensome objects that I had ever encountered. I looked up the hill towards the ski hire place and it became a mountain. I burst into drunken tears of self pity, lost my balance, and fell headfirst into a drainage ditch by the side of the road.

I settled myself in the dust where I landed. Helen's boozy, clip-clop accompanied rendition of Hernando's Hideaway faded, and I swooned into an alcohol induced oblivion, wondering if this was how I was going to die?