10 Hotel from Hell – June 2017

17 June 2017

Where we live is referred to as the North East of Scotland, but I’m not sure that’s right.  The East bit is fine.  Travel much further in that direction and you would soon get wet feet.  But North?  I remain unconvinced.

I found myself considering the North early on Tuesday morning as my train approached Inverness.  Out the window I was able to gaze upon the majesty of the beautiful yet menacing mountains away to my right and consider the fact an awful lot of Scotland is further north than we are.

My musings were interrupted by an elderly harridan pushing the ScotSnail trolley of overpriced sweets. On it were mounted two flasks of warmish water used to make a drink that she had been inaccurately describing as ‘tea’ for the last three hours.

As she bellowed “ANY DRINKS OR SNACKS?” at me for the unpeenth time in the mistaken belief I was going to say Yes, then rammed my seat in disgust when I mouthed the words ‘No thank you’ at her, my thought were diverted away from the splendid vista.

The early morning journey to Inverness is usually made slouched in a heap and dozing. No chance of that with Hecate taking a day off from the Scottish play to push her mobile cauldron up and down the train.

As I turned my attention back to the mountains I wondered why anyone would want to pull on a pair of walking boots then risk life and limb climbing to the top, just to come all the way back down again.  Then again perhaps they don’t.

You only have their word they actually made it to the top.  That selfie could have been taken on the hill behind our house.  One rocky patch looks very much like another.

Each to their own I suppose.  They probably have no interest in 1970’s disco music, the internal combustion engine or the tyranny of the rocket equation.

Our Inverness office is a splendid two storey construction with glass running floor to ceiling that usually offers a stunning panoramic views to the North.  My intention had been to take a photo and share it with you.  Unfortunately I had forgotten about the mature trees in full leaf that fringe the site, rendering such an image impossible.

I briefly considered a picture of what lies immediately outside the office but thought some very badly parked cars, several youngsters weeping hysterically as they leave the driving test centre next door and the old chap who always walks his dog along the grass then waits while it lays it special eggs before walking off without picking them up was not worthy of your attention.

But the view is not unlike this:

Note you can see Inverness Caledonian Thistle Football Club (ICTFC) in the foreground.  I am not well versed in the structure of the association football leagues or the capabilities of the teams to be found therein, but according to my mate Dave from Dingwall they are “Shite”.

To digress briefly I am one of the minority who really don’t like football.  Spending an hour and a half watching twenty two overpaid morons chase a balloon around a field while chucking themselves on the floor like they have been shot whenever someone from the opposing team comes within 10 feet is not my idea of fun.

On Tuesday afternoon I was chauffeured to our Elgin office by a colleague.  Having delivered a course four times in Inverness we were due to deliver it eleven times in Elgin over the following a day and a half.

I must confess I love doing that sort of thing.  Despite the uniformity of the content each session is different.  You may find yourself staring at a dozen silent expressionless faces for one session then being bombarded with mild yet humorous abuse and having to reign in the hilarity on the next.

Plus by the end of the day my voice sounds like an English Barry White.  Which is extremely cool.

When staying away in Elgin I usually opt for the budget hotel at the other end of town.  I need the exercise and like the mental cleansing the 45 minute walk each way provides.  

This time however I was offered two nights in the Mansfield, Elgin’s premier Hotel.  It looks very appealing, has a big sign outside with four stars on it plus has the word ‘Luxury’ in big red letters, just in case you were in any doubt as to the quality of the establishment.

Before my visit people had said things like “Well you’re moving up in the world!” and “Wow!  It’s meant to be amazing!”, so I was looking forward to my two evenings of fine dining and hot and cold running chambermaids.

Now as you know I’m not one to complain and I can honestly say the breakfasts and breakfast staff were exceptional.  Amazing even.  Sausages to die for.

But the rest of the experience was grim.  On arrival I was met by an unsmiling receptionist sitting at a desk so cluttered I suspected she had a hoarding problem.  She was fiddling about with her smart phone and pens.  I waited patiently until she was ready.  She then looked at me in silence, her expression that of someone who has already decided they don’t like me.

“Hello” I said.  “I’d like to check in.”

“Name?” barked the daughter of Cruella-de-vil.

I provided my name and she consulted a number of dog eared sheets of paper covered in highlighter.  Next she peered in a big metal box that appeared to be full of rubbish, then after a bit of raking about in the dusty clutter found a room key. 

She passed it to me then locked eyes in that way people do when they want to make it clear they despise the fact you were ever born.

She then said very fast “Lift is round the corner.  Go left left left. Breakfast at seven.  In the restaurant.”

And in an instant was back fiddling with her phone.

“And good evening to you too Madam!” I replied, but my sarcasm was completely wasted.

I found the creaking lift and we slowly ascended two floors.  When the doors opened I was struck by two things, the temperature was about 40 degrees C (104 degrees F) and there was an overpowering smell of stale wee.

I held my breath and made a dash for my room.  I opened the door to discover it was even hotter.  I switched on the ramshackle air conditioning unit and was surprised to discover that it both worked and failed to give me an electric shock when I pressed the button.  However, while it made a lot of encouraging noises it disappointingly only seemed able to cool enough air to fill a small condom.  Whatever one of those is.

I left it on and threw the large sash window wide open with the pathetic satisfaction that it wasn’t my electricity I was wasting.  I stuck my head out and discovered I was directly above the kitchen.  Explained the heat anyway.  I removed the 35 assorted cushions from the bed and lay on top of the thick 1990’s bed cover thing.  I decided anymore movement that day would be unwise in case I melted.

When I returned to the hotel on Wednesday night after a full day on the job I turned on the tap in the bathroom and the top came off in my hand.  I managed to fix it then discovered the sink was leaking badly, with waste water pouring out underneath.

On my way out for tea I visited reception to report it.  Since my initial exchange with the phone fiddler the desk had been empty every time I passed, however by chance it was now staffed by another young lady who almost pretended to smile as I approached.

“Hi.  The tap in my bathroom is broken and the sink is leaking badly”.

No reaction.

“Thought I’d better let you know”.

No reaction.

I stood.  She sat.  In silence.  I began to wonder if the poor woman was deaf.  Suddenly she formed a properly fearsome false smile and said “Well there is nothing I can do about it until tomorrow when I can phone our plumber”.

‘Can phone?’ I thought.  Did she mis-speak, or is preventing a tsunami of soapy water and toothpaste laden spit from descending the ‘Grand staircase’ and flooding the ‘Lochside View’ restaurant too much trouble?

If that did happen at least people would be distracted from the disappointment of discovering that the view is not actually of a beautiful loch with leaping salmon and frolicking deer but is in fact of a busy concrete roundabout.

I switched on the sarcasm generator and said “Oh no, don’t worry at all!  I check out tomorrow and I am sure spending the rest of my time here with wet feet will be fine!”

My rudeness was not lost on her.  She snorted her disapproval like a bull with sinus and just stared at me blankly.  I thought that a good point to leave.

Then suddenly it is the weekend again.  I have abandoned the box room for the living room this week because we are in the middle of another heatwave.

Last night we made the rash decision to have a lunchtime BBQ today.  Parent wise it was their turn to come to us so we gave my mother and father the option of join us today or coming for Sunday lunch tomorrow.

They opted for the BBQ, so this morning I spent several hours under a baking sun making the garden presentable and chasing the cats into next doors every time they looked like they wanted to empty their bowels.

Lunch was cooked, consumed and all was good.  Then around 7pm I looked in a mirror to discover my skin had turned the colour of an over-ripe strawberry.  Curse my fair complexion and manly decision not to wear a hat.

To finish I took this picture in the car park of a local Asda Wallmart.  For those unfamiliar with British signage the spaces are marked as reserved for the disabled.  The bottom image come courtesy of my friend Kimberley and her pretend husband Whitesnake David.

I bet the driver of that car has a cat.