You may have noticed a post yesterday on the subject of office-based tomfoolery, which I have now deleted due to its failure in 'The Speller Process,' the litmus test by which I assess my letters' suitability for publication. Apologies for the inconvenience.
Due to a series of circumstances too unusual to fully describe, I spent Tuesday night lounging around in an extremely posh London hotel. I felt like something of an imposter; wandering into its impressively neon-lit lobby among businessmen and tourists, considering that I (a) could never have afforded to stay there on my own merit, and (b) had no real need to stay there, as I live only seven miles away. Siegfried - the acne-enslaved deputy manager with an excessively high-pitched laugh - instantly saw through the intended charade, and treated me as the proletarian flotsam that of course I am. He did however give me a room at the end of an empty corridor. At first I thought this a favour (keeping me away from unsavoury types making loud and disconcerting noises), but in the lift I was faced with the shocking realisation that it was actually a profound insult; that I was the unsavoury type, and Siegfried clearly believed me the sort of person who would make noises so loud and disconcerting that I had to be ostracised to my own wing of the building. I explained this to the American with the handlebar moustache opposite me in the lift, but his mind was evidently elsewhere.
The room itself was wonderful.
An hour later Pongo came to check on me, finding me lying on my massive bed, reading Jane Austen in a silk kimono, with the remnants of a delicate cucumber and honey facepack still noticeable around my heavily moisturised and exfoliated visage. Needless to say, he had some comments on his abhorrence for this absurdly feminine pose of relaxation, all of which were too graphic / explicit to reprint here. I couldn't disagree with his analysis though, and accompanied him down to the bar for some much needed hetero time.
The bar itself was lovely; huge leather armchairs, delightful ambient music, a host of affluent and powerful individuals reclining with various cocktails. Pongo and I set up camp in a dark and sinister corner, ordered in a couple of Maccallans and set the world to rights. Half an hour later I was heinously shitfaced, had lost Pongo, and found myself watching the moustached American trying to pick up what was CLEARLY an Eastern European prostitute. Happily / sadly he succeeded. I saw no money change hands though, so left the bar none the wiser as to how skilfully he managed to haggle. Maybe she took a VISA.
On the back of having witnessed this seedy transaction, I sloped up to my room feeling irrevocably disillusioned. Man's operations certainly are strange......particularly in the anonymous purgatories of swanky hotel bars. Still, 'different strokes for different folks,' as Clare would say.
Anyway, at least I didn't have to listen to them consummating their short-lived romance.
Taking clients to watch a show being filmed at ITV tonight. Enrique Iglesias is performing. My mother is apoplectic with jealousy.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
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