Low Life | 20 June 2009

Last week I’d had all I could take of the idiotic moral criticism levelled at me by those who profess to love me, and I fled and took refuge in a Premier Lodge. Or was it a Travelodge? I always confuse the two. Even as I checked in I wasn’t sure with which of the two hotel chains I’d made the booking. But the cheerful, dissolute-looking receptionist found my name on her printed list and told me I was welcome. It was the nicest thing anyone had said to me for ages.

Room 312 was a small, square room with a double bed and a small portable TV. And that was it. There was no chair, no table, no trouser press, no fridge, no hotel chain art on the wall. It was merely a clean, comfortable, carpeted cell. Yes, the room smelt of sweaty socks. Yes, the outside surface of the window was opaque with grime, lending a sepia tinge to the view of the swaying tree tops of a small park patronised by students and boozers. And, yes, the windows couldn’t be opened from the inside to let in some necessary fresh air. But the sheets and pillow cases were laundry fresh and there was nobody in it keeping up a running commentary on my moral failings. I liked room 312 at once.

I switched on the only luxury — the telly — to see if it worked. The talking head of Lord Mandelson, Grand High Satsuma of the Temple of the Inner Splendidness, materialised. Then I lay on the bed and opened the can of extra-strong lager I’d bought with me to celebrate my escape. A hissing plume of beer erupted over me, over the bed and up the wall behind me.