Friday, 28 September 2012


She’s got the cut-glass features of a classic Eastern European femme fatale and, currently, she’s looking at me, from across the bar, with all warmth of a high security prison guard.

“I’m sorry, but that room has already had breakfast”

"Err, no, I haven't"

Her manner is matter-of-fact, she's The Bored Bouncer, as if hotel guests ARE ALWAYS trying to con second breakfasts. The withering disdain seems a bit much, I think. 

To be honest, up until the minute I walked into that breakfast room, I'd taken for granted I was indeed the guest in Room 91 - it's the same room I'd stayed in the week before - but now I was being challenged, it threw me a little.

She repeats herself, because repeating her position will clear the issue up. 

“Room 91 has had breakfast” Her belief so unshaken to contrary evidence,  I wonder if she’s a Creationist.

I'mm in Room 91!” I whine the whine of the unjusted. “And I can assure you I haven’t had breakfast yet!”

She is not having it and, the point is, neither am I. I’m annoyed and I am hungry and I cannot resist challenging this Escher styled logic.

I try another tact:

“Okay, have you seen me before?” she hesitates. Got her.

I imagine my next move might be to invite Her Bloody-Minded Highness to my room...

"See? I can get in!" as I open the door.

"See? ONE toothbrush?" as I show her the bathroom.

"See? A boyfriend I can dial up on Facetime who is a living eye-witness to it just being me and the flocked wallpaper and those weird little disco lights in the bathroom that are meant to affect your mood (which, in fact,  they kind of do, because whatever I am thinking or feeling, their incessant flickering makes me think of Donna Summer and waltzers and screaming-if you-want-to-go-faster and who the hell thought of putting flashing coloured lights in a toilet?)"

I’m about to implement my unconventional plan when I spot my name by the room number

“That’s my name!” I'm indignant now. “Why would I want a second breakfast? I’m not a bloody hobbit!” At which point another waitress leans in. She smiles and informs The Ice Maiden that it's a mistake before disappearing to serve coffee elsewhere. 

The Woman Who Wanted To Say No is foiled. At least this time. Curses. She doesn’t apologise, her mouth as tight as the apron wound 'round her tiny waist.

“Sowhatdoyouwant?” she asks impatiently.

I note she doesn’t offer me a menu. “Can I just have a cooked breakfast, but no eggs?”

“What can you mean by that? Is it meant to be a full Irish breakfast?” 

She really is an arse.

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