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Somebody call the 1970s and tell them i’ve found their hotel…

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So. For a school project let’s write about what I did on my holidays. Well I can’t go into too much detail as there’s a state secret involving someone else that I can’t let out of the bag for at least another week, but regardless of that I can tell you some peripheral things. Lets say that Mrs Moosehunter went out on her hen night in York on Friday. She may have been a little tipsy. I shall say no more.

Then on Saturday morning we crossed most of the country to go to another party with numerous friends. Because we were on the other side of England, we needed to stay over and so we booked a hotel. Since our wedding and honeymoon are coming up, we didn’t want to splash out much on what would only be a place to fall over and snore after all. So we paid £35 for a double room. I have never paid that little for a room. Even a single room. Needless to say then, I was a touch apprehensive about the place. It turned out to be fairly comfortable with a few quirks. Firstly, I had to walk through the door to the room at least three times to convince myself that it wasn’t some kind of magic portal. Outside the door was a little olde-worlde hotel with beams and winding corridors and the kind of smells that make you look behind things for the body of the terminally flatulent sheepdog. [See my entry about the hotel in Edinburgh a few months ago for more on this kind of place.] However, inside the room it appeared to be 1971. It’s almost impossible to describe, but if you remember the early 70s, I don’t need to. However, in order to aid the imagination… here are some photos:

As if to push me to the limits of my reason, the hot tap and the cold tap in the bathroom gave out exactly the same temperature, which was a sort of tepid luke-warm. There was a sign behind the toilet about remembering to flush the thing, in which almost every word was misspelt (which is one of my pet hates). We are in the middle of a fair heat wave in Britain and the only window in the room that would open, at maximum aperture created a crack not quite wide enough to admit a breath of air. The door would not lock (either from without or from within.) Despite this, I’m happy. I slept fairly well and have memories of having spent the night in 1971.

Also, in this certain town that shall currently remain name and personality-less, there had been a violent incident the night before we arrived. One of the pubs we passed had a broken window with a streak of blood and police outside with a cordon. Even the charity shops in this town had steel grilles over the doors and windows. I’m getting the impression of a rough place. If you lived in a town where you have to have security grilles to protect your precious stock of porcelain elephants and Abba LPs, you wouldn’t feel safe, now would you? But regardless, that is what they had in the shops. Not only the charity shops either. We passed an electrical store that sold the same lamps we saw in the 1971 room! This must be Brigadoon or something. It was the first time the town had been in our reality since Englebert Humpadink was at the top of the charts! Abba LPs, porcelain animals, orange furniture, brown patterned lamps… oh dear lord!!!

And then there was the actual event, which was a storming party and went very well. Except for me. I can’t remember where I wrote it, but some time back I added an entry about the ten most stupid things I’ve ever done. Well knock one off the list, we have a new winner. I was standing with lots of friends by a tennis court outside the drinking establishment we were at. The man we will call ‘Sloppy’ was there, as was Mrs Moosehunter among others. I’d been discussing two things with Sloppy that may have tempted God to turn the shit cannon in my direction and press the red button. Firstly, we were re-enacting that scene from ‘Jaws’ by comparing our wounds (some of which were quite good) and also talking about relative age-differences in relationships. This led to an image of me in my dotage being pushed around in a wheelchair by Mrs Moosehunter wearing a nurse’s outfit. I’m sure you can now guess where this is going? Yes, a few minutes after both these conversations, I was standing on a wall. This was a low wall facing the establishment, maybe 8 inches off the floor. On the other side, it dropped to the level of the tennis court some two and a half feet down. Mrs Moosehunter said something pithy and I leaned forward to tickle her as punishment. She then stepped out of the way and I lost my balance, slipping away behind the wall. While my right leg was descending the other was still on the wall and, given time, I’d have worried about my crotch being ripped in half. As it was, all other thoughts were shuffled aside as the wall scraped a sizeable portion of my shin away.

In actual fact, it’s a hole less that half an inch across, but it’s circular and deep enough we could see bone initially. Now I’m not really squeamish, so I hauled myself upright and limped off to the gents to wash it. That hurt a little, but it was still quite numb. It stopped being numb when I got back outside and Hotspur’s other half tipped four gallons of dettol into the hole. Now that DOES make you cry. She then put a dressing on it. I smiled, for now I was healed. But ten minutes later I looked to find the dressing was filling up with blood and rivulets had begun to run down my leg into my sock and fill my shoe.

This began to perturb me a little. Anyway, we coped with it during the night, checking every twenty minutes or so to see if a new rivulet had started up. It was 15 miles to the nearest hospital, it was getting late and everyone had had too much to drink, so I just spent the evening drinking, laughing and getting gradually paler. We got back to the hotel at the end, changed the dressing, using something that the bar had given us that appeared to be a nappy (diaper for Americans) and collapsed into bed.

Yesterday (the day after) I woke up to find the nappy had fallen off but my wound appeared to have dried up. I stood up, went to the bathroom and tore off the plasters that had held the nappy on (wincing as all my leg hair disappeared) and then started to get dressed. Unfortunately, the moment I started walking, it put the pressure back on and the bleeding started once more. We bought some dressings, returned to Yorkshire and I saw my parents and Nicky in the village. They fussed and argued and then made me replace my dressing again (which was still gradually becoming soaked with blood) and put horrible pink germoline ointment on first. They also both made me promise to see a doctor today.

Today I have been late for work. Mrs Moosehunter drove me to the minor injuries unit in town and I had it looked at. I have to admit to being a touch nervous this morning in case they wanted to prod and pull and debrede (good word that I don’t get to use very often) the wound. In actual fact she cleaned it quite thoroughly (and painfully) and told me off for not seeing a doctor on Saturday night. She said they couldn’t stitch it as it was too wide. She would put another dressing on it and we’d just have to keep watching it. I have to go back Wednesday and then Friday. On Saturday I get married and a week today I go to Egypt for two weeks. Guess what? The sister told me to remind them to give me spare dressings to take with me. Yay. I suppose that means she doesn’t expect it to stop me going, but she also doesn’t expect it to heal before then. Oh goody. I burn slightly faster and easier than alcohol and I’m going to Egypt with a square dressing on one shin. I am going to return to the motherland looking like a lobster with a square white patch. Swimming in the dead sea could be a touch painful if it’s not fully healed. An open wound and the water with the world’s highest salt content? Just give me the stick to poke my eye out now.

Anyway, I think I’ll leave it there for now. But just in order to get a round of applause (I’m an attention-junky) I actually DID give up smoking despite having not written the diary I promised. I had my last one 8 days ago now and the initial cravings are over. It has been a long time since I went a week without one. Now if I can only stop injuring myself.

Music for the moment is something slightly rocky playing in the back garden of the scrotes that live next door to our office and batter their children. A lovely lot.

See yer soon.



Written by SJAT

December 20, 2009 at 1:37 pm

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