Now for some of those days I was transfixed by the TV coverage of the UK General Election, but for another three days I was at a tennis tournament with Master Benedict during which I spent two nights in a rather grubby hotel in London.
"Grubby" seems a suitable description for that hell-hole of a place. In fact, I could spend the whole blog whinging about it. Briefly; the shower only had two settings (freezing cold/scalding hot) which was made even more difficult to regulate because the handle fell off, the room keys didn't work, two of our rooms were in another building, they didn't take credit cards and (horror upon horrors) there was no bacon and tomato ketchup at breakfast. However, instead of whinging too much and boring the pants of you all I shall sum the experience with this short tale...
After discovering that the keys to the rooms didn't work, I went back to the reception whereupon they gave me new keys with this parting throwaway line:
"Oh by the way, there might be trouble in the room in between your rooms tonight."
Yes, that's right, the hotel had not only booked half the team in another building but also with a room in between them where some delinquents were apparently going to be hanging out and partying all night. Because, as the hotel receptionist knowingly told me, "They knew this kind of thing."
Now I am not sure if I was meant to be impressed by this worldly knowledge but at that moment I turned from the polite and patient Housewife Extraordinaire that I normally am into a vitriolic middle-age woman with a forked tongue.
I don't normally lose my rag. But when I am told that my team might be disturbed by rowdy part-goers I kinda thought that the hotel ought to be speaking to the occupants of the offending rooms, and not me, about the protocols of staying in a hotel.
Ugh. What can I say? London's changed a lot since I lived there. And not all of it for the better.
Anyway, now I've got that whine over with ... I can continue with another! Last Thursday, son No 1 came home to cast his vote in the General Election and to give me a book as a belated birthday present. The book was this one:
"Your mother...She's not well...She's been imagining things - terrible, terrible things...."
"Everything that man has told you is a lie. I'm not mad....I need the police."
"None of what she claims is real."
"If you refuse to believe me, I will no longer consider you my son...."
At which point I wondered if the gift was a subliminal message. I duly raised my concerns with Young Sam who merely laughed.
I wonder what I'll get for my B-day next year? I have a feeling it won't be bath salts.