Shambles

As I said yesterday, last night was spent in yet another hotel.

I tried to be fair, I really did: I knew that for what the Civil pays to bunk down its lower-grade employees, I couldn’t expect the Queens Hotel, Leeds, standards. But I didn’t expect “The Shambles” (not the real name, before some hotel that’s really called The Shambles sues me). With my room on the second floor, and with a case and two bags, a lift would’ve been nice. So would a bed that didn’t go “CRACK” when I sat on it, or a toilet seat that hadn’t already gone “CRACK” when a previous guest sat on it. Are you getting the impression?

“At least I can have a meal without going outside the hotel – the restaurant looks OK”, I thought to myself – moments before discovering that the restaurant was closed to diners because it was being used for a speed dating night. And no I didn’t – I went for a bar snack. Since the bar was decorated in standard pub stylee, I at least had hopes for the beer – which turned out to be a choice of two lagers, served from one of those complex and highly-polished fittings that looks like the Archchancellor of Unseen University’s shower.

I don’t think I’ll stay there again.

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