A hotel room can be a terribly lonely place. A Corby Trouser Press isn’t much company. There was one chair at the desk, and another at a small round table. This was room 628, but I imagined that it was the same as pretty much any room in the whole building. There’s nothing like the anonymity of a one-night visit to make you feel like a cog in the machine. I put my trousers in the Corby, and sat down to watch telly in my underpants.
The beers that I’d picked up from M&S at Piccadilly were going down swimmingly. Too swimmingly, it turned out. Soon I wanted more. Funny, in that I’d deliberately not arranged to meet any friends to make sure I wasn’t drunk the night before the conference. So much for that careful plan. I put on my shorts and headed to the off-license to re-fuel.
It was a combination of the hotel room, and that my mobile signal was weird so I couldn’t get online, and that I hadn’t really spoken to anybody since I left the office, and that I was a bit drunk – I started to get a bit mopey. My mind kept ticking back to the message I’d received earlier in the day. It was from Nicola, and it had said, gracefully and delicately, that she wasn’t interested in me. So it goes.
I finished my beer and fell asleep in a bed that was big enough for three.
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