Snowbombing, Love Bombing & A Broken Heart

You know that moment in life where everything feels like a music video? You’re in your early 30s, riding high on freedom and a strong après buzz, carving down Austrian slopes. That was me. One year, a bunch of us decided to swap the grey skies of London for the crisp Alpine air of Mayrhofen, and descend upon Snowbombing like the chaotic, over-caffeinated legends we believed we were.

We’d just finished a full day on the slopes – adrenaline pumping, cheeks frozen, and egos mildly bruised. Naturally, it was time for the main event: après-ski. As we hit the bottom of the gondola, we were drawn—like sweaty, salopette-clad moths—to a beacon of loud music, dancing bodies, and that glorious scent of beer and ski socks. We piled in, helmets still on, radiating big "British on holiday" energy.

That’s where we met them.

A group of guys with equally questionable dancing, and, as it turned out, London postcodes too. I clocked two of them instantly – one tall, blonde and a bit floppy in a golden retriever kind of way, and one shorter, cute, with a cheeky grin that screamed: “I’ll ruin your life, but in a fun way.”

Reader, I chose chaos. I went for the short one.

We were vibing. Like, ski-boot shuffling, shouting-over-Calvin-Harris vibing. They seemed sound, so I invited the whole lot back to our hotel, thinking I was the hostess with the mostess – we had a pool, after all. Except, plot twist: a group of drunk Essex lads had beaten us to it and smashed a bottle in the water. Pool closed. I looked like a right muppet. But we salvaged the evening with drinks and snow-soaked flirting. Me and the cute one? Sparks.

The next night, we went to see The Prodigy. Yes, at a ski festival. Yes, it was as mental as it sounds. Tall Blonde had me up on his shoulders (strong, considering he looked like a sentient baguette), clearly trying to outshine his mate. Bit awkward though, since he casually had a girlfriend. Yack. Men.

The cute one and I had our first kiss. It was soft. Sincere. Surprisingly sober.

Back in London, things kicked off fast – like, warp speed. He was love bombing me deluxe, and my anxious-attacher brain was eating it up like a £4 Pret cookie. He joined my sports team (green flag), met some of my family (major green flag), and even planned a reunion with the Snowbombing gang.

That’s when the cracks started showing.

He was late to the night out. My brain was already spiralling and scanning the door every 30 seconds. When he finally arrived, I was so relieved I whispered in his ear, “I’m falling for you.” Too soon? Probably. But it felt real.

We waited a while before sleeping together. I thought maybe the anticipation would make him more serious. When it finally happened, it was lovely... but he always left straight after. Said his Catholic mum didn’t like him staying out (yes, he lived with her — red flag disguised as a financial plan).

Still, I pressed on. I invited him to my work pub quiz. He joked he’d only see me after the World Cup, 5 weeks later. Banter? Possibly. Omen? Definitely.

He started texting less. Cancelling plans. Turning up late. The kind of stuff that makes anxious hearts beat erratically and logical brains scream, Abort mission!

So I decided to say something. The “you need to up your game or you’ll lose me” talk. A rom-com moment. Except, not. He rocked up late again — Formula 1 was on, obviously — and before I could even pour the drinks, he hit me with a casual: “Yeah, I don’t really want a girlfriend.”

And just like that, boom. Gone.

I was gutted. Like, listen-to-Adele-in-the-dark levels of gutted. The kind of heartbreak that lingers like a bad hangover. I didn’t think I’d bounce back.

But of course, I did. Slowly, then all at once.

I saw him a couple more times over the years – always by chance, always in the same area, always about a year apart. Some weird, heartstring-y version of Groundhog Day. Bit of a ghost in a North Face jacket.

Last I heard, he’s got a swanky job in New York. Good for him. Honestly. But also, thank everything I dodged that flat-footed bullet.

So here’s to Snowbombing, love bombing, and never trusting a man who says his mum’s Catholic and lives at home but also can’t stay the night because of "football."

Stay tuned, love x