The help-yourself breakfast buffet was a single, waxed carton of orange juice (made from concentrate), and a stack of small upturned glasses. I filled one of these, tipped it down my throat, poured another and bore it to a table set for one beside the swing service door leading to the kitchen. A grubby laminated menu on the tea-stained tablecloth said that the Continental breakfast was tea or coffee with brown or white toast. Dotted about at the other tables were what appeared to be foreign tourists: a solitary meditative backpacker, two not quite awake couples, a fitfully vivacious table of four Spaniards. The unspoken shame of having to start the day in such shabby, penny-pinching surroundings was palpable.
On the far side of the room, directly opposite my table, was a large mirror. I could see myself from the waist up, neatly framed within it, my elbows on the table. In spite of a smart, plain-white shirt, my appearance was surprisingly dissolute, lending credence to a growing suspicion that I was far from sober. The eyes, smaller than usual, gleamed insolently back at me. The service door swung violently open, interrupting my view and wafting a gust of warm kitchen air over me. Then it swung back once more, and there I was again, staring menacingly back at myself, a few stray strands of my squashed barnet waving in the breeze.
When I’d woken up, I was lying flat on my back in a narrow single bed in a hotel room I didn’t recognise. The room was like a cupboard. It was so narrow I could have spanned it with outstretched arms. And my legs were wet. The bottom half of the bed was sodden.
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