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Something for the lady? 

  
My day starts in a more vexing style than I would like. 

Mid ‘snooze’ I hear the faint hum of machinery. The high pitched screech and whirring cuts through my semi-consciousness and reality pours in. 

It is bin day. 

Consciousness begins to take a hold of me and quickly informs me that my bin is not out.

I spring from my bed and to the landing window to assess the severity of the situation. It is as I feared; the bin lorry has just passed my house and is successfully emptying next door’s bin from the roadside position required for a bin to be emptied. 

I sigh to myself, cursing last night’s me who convinced me, loyally, that she would put the bin out this morning. Stupid cow. “Won’t listen to her again” I vow. 

I roll into the Marriott after another peaceful and relaxing day where everything has gone to plan and not a single problem has arisen to find that they are experiencing some kind of power cut. Feeling my way through the dim entrance I find the reception desk and enquire as to the lack of lighting in the reception area. 

“Oh it’s to create an ‘armbiarnce'” the receptionist informs me, rolling his eyes. He seems to have a similar opinion to me of the new ‘lighting plan’. 

Exhausted and disgruntled, I consider getting room service and jumping straight into bed. I wander over to the window to close the curtains when something catches my eye. An ethereal, blue glow right below my window. The hotel pool. 

The impossible happens. The unbelievable. The inconceivable. I go for a swim. 

After six months of carrying my swimming kit around with me, I actually go to the swimming pool and swim in it. And let me tell you, I enjoy it! I enjoyed it all the way up until a group of lads who, presumably, have never been to a swimming pool before, descend upon the pool area, forcing the rest of us civilised pool goers to retire from our magical haven and return to the real world. 

The swim has done wonders for my mood and fatigue and I decide to push the boat out even further and eat outside of my room, where other people are. 

Feeling as benevolent as a lad who has just discovered a pool, if slightly quieter, I order a glass of prosecco and boeuf bourguignon and settle into a comfy looking sofa for a delectable evening of talking amongst myself. 

But something is remiss. 

This comfy looking sofa is not comfy. It is too long in the seat and my posture is all out of whack. I glance around for a cushion. There aren’t any on my sofa. I cast my gaze further afield but, to my surprise, there are no cushions on any of the sofas. 

I flick back through my mental files. This bar definitely normally has cushions. I flash back to a late night vault over the sofa across from me and the casting of cushions hither and thither in my wake. The new, no cushions policy may actually be for good reason. 

My favourite bar staff member appears and offers me his usual hotel charm, “How are you this evening madam? Is there anything I can get for the lady?”

Puzzled, The lady enquires after the missing cushions. He also looks around and seems similarly puzzled by the cushion drought. The lady discusses the possibility of cushion abduction and asks if they had to be removed because of too many pillow fights breaking out in the bar. Ever the consummate professional, he smiles politely and makes a sympathetic comment about how poor the sofa is for the lady’s posture sans cushions and potters off to remedy the situation “immediately”. 

Suitably placated with a selection of cushions and priding herself on bringing this important omission to the attention of someone clearly enrolled on the management training programme, the lady enjoys her dinner and retires. 

Bounding up the stairs to my room, I indulge myself in a nice, big, noisy yawn. I round the corner, mid yawn, and notice a pair of high heeled shoes on the floor. Looking up I find their owner stood, eating biscuits and looking at my still rather large, yawny face. 

Ever the lady. 

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