Last week I’d had all I could take of the idiotic moral criticism levelled at me by those who profess to love me, and I fled and took refuge in a Premier Lodge. Or was it a Travelodge? I always confuse the two. Even as I checked in I wasn’t sure with which of the two hotel chains I’d made the booking. But the cheerful, dissolute-looking receptionist found my name on her printed list and told me I was welcome. It was the nicest thing anyone had said to me for ages.
Room 312 was a small, square room with a double bed and a small portable TV. And that was it. There was no chair, no table, no trouser press, no fridge, no hotel chain art on the wall. It was merely a clean, comfortable, carpeted cell. Yes, the room smelt of sweaty socks. Yes, the outside surface of the window was opaque with grime, lending a sepia tinge to the view of the swaying tree tops of a small park patronised by students and boozers.
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