Seven o'clock is the wake up call in the hotel suite, next door but one
Down the corridor a door slams, the first executive is on the move
I press my mobile alarm to snooze, feel the early day sensation in my feet; the baths, showers and WC's set the plumbing pipes in motion
My meeting, a presentation by others, is at Ten AM, one hours drive away; as I enter that point into the iPod I realise it is time to turn on my own taps
Time to begin my mornings ablutions; but first to make a cup of English tea, while the tub fills with hot and lukewarm water; I mix in the complimentary bubble foam
I submerge myself in the three quarter length vessel; it is not a delicate movement, yet I am supported by the handrail. The shampoo is eco boutique, I put some in my travelling bags, next weeks rooms may not be so luxurious
My untidy stubble means I need to shave, it is a man thing, and tedious; that's why midweek I mostly wear the unkempt look, unless, as today, I am the public face of the company
Back at my desk, still writing, but now hurrying, for breakfast is at eight sharp I told myself last night. I put on yesterday's clothes, I will change later, after a couple of rashers of bacon, with soft fried eggs
I put the trousers in the trouser press and go; the chambermaid smiles, she offers a warm good morning, it's been quite a while since I was a regular, but we do remember faces don't we; especially honest workers
The restaurant waitress is equally welcoming, asking sincerely how I am; she points out the weeping willows, starting to turn to leaf; I tell her that they are further on than at my daughters in Derbyshire where I have just visited my new born grandson (will he always now be in my conversation)
We talk some more about weeping willows, she has one in a pot at home; the meal ends with black coffee, toast and strawberry jam. I return to my room, passing pleasantries, again about my becoming a grandfather, on the way
The writing has to stop, time to focus and concentrate on the work; reading back I see I have told you a lot of little things, yet there is much more that I have left out
Next door’s telephone is ringing; it is left unanswered, she may already have left.
This is a poem from Vagaries:
Love of The Key to Room 149