Talk about what happened in the morning. Go on, you'll feel better (actually, you probably won't, but I'll feel better, which certainly works for me).
Last small, privately run, hotel I stayed in had curtains round everything: dressing table; sink; bath. Made one think about apocryphal tales of Victorian prudery, piano legs and suchlike. They also had a stuffed owl above the reception desk and a number of "best Mercedes saloon in class" awards dating back to the early 1980s in the dining room. That was a private trip; for work I always end up staying in bland chain hotels that leave one with absolutely nothing to say, for or against. A friend is getting married in July (I'm best man) and the only hotel nearby is run by a family who also run a takeaway Indian restaurant from the dining room. I have great hopes for the anecdotes I might get out of that one.
I won't nag about how you never post - otherwise I end up sounding like Maureen Lipman in a BT advert - but pleased to see you are still around and about. More please.
I'm saving the events of that morning for an appearance on In The Psychiatrist's Chair or something.
I always remember this sequence in the television version of The Modern Antiquarian where the cameraman asks Julian Cope why he prefers Travelodges to nice characterful small hotels and B&Bs as he travels the country, and Cope explains that he got sick to death of being welcomed and doted on and chatted to by little old landladies when all he wanted to do was scream GIVE ME THE KEYS BITCH, find his room and go to sleep.
I haven't worked in a book shop in about three years but there have been a couple of times that I was in a particular branch and people would come up to me and ask where things were. I must still have that look of a book shop employee: disappointed with life but still competent enough to care.
No matter what type of store I'm shopping at, I always get people coming up to me and asking me for help. I either have "Retail Slave" tattooed across my forehead or I just have one of those faces, like "Look at her, that miserable expression, she must work here!".
But speaking of DSes, it has sucked me into the world of video games again. Damn Nintendo!
I think it's more like your second option with me. I go to shops with a purpose and then usually end up drifting around in a trance, and people think, "He looks completely gormless - he must work here."
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Last small, privately run, hotel I stayed in had curtains round everything: dressing table; sink; bath. Made one think about apocryphal tales of Victorian prudery, piano legs and suchlike. They also had a stuffed owl above the reception desk and a number of "best Mercedes saloon in class" awards dating back to the early 1980s in the dining room. That was a private trip; for work I always end up staying in bland chain hotels that leave one with absolutely nothing to say, for or against. A friend is getting married in July (I'm best man) and the only hotel nearby is run by a family who also run a takeaway Indian restaurant from the dining room. I have great hopes for the anecdotes I might get out of that one.
I won't nag about how you never post - otherwise I end up sounding like Maureen Lipman in a BT advert - but pleased to see you are still around and about. More please.
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I always remember this sequence in the television version of The Modern Antiquarian where the cameraman asks Julian Cope why he prefers Travelodges to nice characterful small hotels and B&Bs as he travels the country, and Cope explains that he got sick to death of being welcomed and doted on and chatted to by little old landladies when all he wanted to do was scream GIVE ME THE KEYS BITCH, find his room and go to sleep.
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I must still have that look of a book shop employee: disappointed with life but still competent enough to care.
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But speaking of DSes, it has sucked me into the world of video games again. Damn Nintendo!
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