Is everything better in hotels? I’ve been staying in one for a few days, and it’s always the same: how come these tea bags are really good? And their coffee sachets? And their shower gel?
It’s just a budget hotel, and the coffee and tea are standard brands, but not my usual ones. Maybe everything seems better when you’re on holiday, though I’m not, but at least I’m having a change of scene.
I’ve been searching for the ideal tea bag for the best part of two years now. My mate’s holiday home had fantastic ones – left by a previous guest – but they’d no packet, so ever since I’ve tried to find ones with the same taste, but just haven’t managed it.
I’m not sure they’re the ones, but those at the hotel are pretty good, and at least I know which brand they are (PG Tips, if you’re interested).
Maybe hotels research the best brands for everyman – nothing fancy or expensive, just a decent brew or a pleasantly scented soap.
It’s the same with the mattress. I always sleep like a log in hotels, but never do at home. I buy these body-moulding, ergonomic mattresses but they sag after a year or so, possibly due to my huge bulk.
The unforgiving light in the bathroom
The worst thing about my stay at this hotel has been the unforgiving light in the bathroom. Why didn’t you tell me I looked such a pillock?
“Out of condition” doesn’t come near it. And what the hell is that? Good heavens, it’s a little cluster of wrinkles. Is there a doctor in the hotel?
This is deeply disturbing. The mirrors in my home show a relatively slim, ageless fellow who could easily pass for someone a year younger. I think it’s because the house is shaded by trees and the lighting is subdued. But here, in this hotel bathroom, it’s like being put under a spotlight. And what do I see? Madam, I see a blob.
Embarrassment at breakfast
Having had the full fried breakfast for a couple of days, I decided on the third that I needed to take action to deblobbify, so I ordered just two fried eggs and some toast (and a croissant with jam; might as well get my money’s worth).
By wearing a nice dress jacket at table, I had persuaded the waiting staff that I was right sophisticated. But then I dropped one of the eggs on ma troosers and, when the waitress came over to ask if I was enjoying my meal, my mouth was full and there was runny egg all over my beard. All the scenario further required was a loud burp.
Perhaps they thought me peculiar. I spent much of the day in my room working, and feared that passing staff in the corridor might hear me talking to myself.
Me: “Get a grip, Rab.”
Also me: “How, what’s wrong?”
“You’re talking to yourself.”
“Naw, I’m no’.”
“You are. Who do you think I am?”
“No idea, but I wish you’d shut up. I’m trying to get some work done here.”
Ach well. As I said, everything seems to be better in hotels. Except Rabs. They’re far worse than I thought!
