Wednesday Night Hotel Club

I have been sitting in my hotel room for the last two hours, mindlessly scrolling through Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and a succession of news websites in search of something - anything - to peak my interest. All the while I am resisting the temptation to bust out a code editor and carry on working into the early hours on the commercial project I am here for. They haven’t paid me to do it, but I can see what their project could be if I put just a little more work into it.

Every so often the Amazon tablet I bought myself for Christmas a couple of years ago chirps in the corner of the room - notifications of some sort or another. I should really switch it to silent, or aeroplane mode to shut it up.

My feet ache. I should have taken my shoes off when I got in from the restaurant earlier, but for some reason have not. The shoes are right there - on the end of my legs, but somehow I haven’t managed to get around to unlacing them and kicking them across the floor yet.

Ah, the restaurant. I went out for a hot meal tonight, on account of the persistently miserable weather. It’s worth noting that the rain and wind destroyed the umbrella I bought yesterday morning. It put up a good fight, but a freak gust of wind on a busy road intersection didn’t so much turn it inside out, as munch it up like a tangled spaghetti of coat-hangers. I swore. Lots. And got wet.

If you’ve been reading this blog for some time, you will know there is a pizza restaurant around the corner from the hotel. It’s part of a very large chain of pizza restaurants that crop up in most big towns and cities here, selling fake Italian sounding food that’s probably sold to franchisees from an industrial unit near London somewhere. I somehow managed to buy a main, a drink, and a pudding and pay just under the allowance given by the company I work for while working away.

I still hate sitting alone in restaurants - especially when they are busy. Two pretty girls sat just across from me, deep in conversation about whichever Netflix shows they happened to be watching at the moment. Behind me a group of fifty-somethings chatted about how funny it was that one of them had arrived late. It really was that boring. I ate my food, drank my drink, paid the waitress, and wandered back.

I travel home tomorrow afternoon. I have tickets for a train a little after 4pm. Friday morning will be filled with paperwork and email. The weekend will be filled with chores. Next week will be filled with continued headbutting of the laptop - but at least I’ll be able to make a sandwich in the kitchen, pour myself a coffee when I want, and sit in the lounge talking absolute rubbish with my children. It’s surprising how quickly you miss the rubbish.