The
ear plugs are in, the double whiskey has been digested and I’m finally dropping
off to sleep in the Premier Inn.
BWAHH BWAAAAAHHHH BWAH BWAH
BWAAAAAAAAH
Bloody
Hell! What’s that?
Wrenching
out my earplugs and blinding myself by hitting the full row of light switches
beside the bed, I leap up and … well, stand there.
I
don’t know what to do. It sure as hell sounds like a fire alarm. At least, it
would do if it was a constant noise, or even a dopplery crescendo siren, but it’s
arhythmic.
BWAAAAAAHHHH
BWAHH BWA
Whatever
it is, it’s happening and I want to stay alive. From my top floor eyrie window
I can see the whole hotel, and there’s no sign of smoke, fire or any apparent
danger.
A
small crowd of people are milling around outside the hotel entrance, smoking
fags.
BWAAAAHH
BWA BWA BWAAAH
But
really, am I going to get back into bed and try and sleep? I’ve got to get
outside. How much of a plonker will I look if I’m rescued by firemen in 20
minutes?
Dammit
dammit dammit. I so needed a good night’s sleep before my flight from Luton to
Knock. I know what I’m like. I can make this journey home feel like an
Antarctic expedition if I put my mind to it, so I’d already wrestled with my
conflicting instincts.
When I
was a youth worker I heard my boss point out to a sixteen year-old that
self-knowledge, on its own, is worthless. We’d been trying to make the lads
start to think about what they did, become aware of the consequences of their
behaviours. But as my boss explained to the confused teenager
“You
can understand all your behaviours but that means nothing unless you do
something about it.”
‘Cor,
that’s good!’ I thought to myself, slightly embarrassed to have only just
learned what I evidently needed to know as a spotty yoof.
So now
I’ve not only become more aware of my unhelpful and destructive behaviour
patterns, but I also try to do something about them. Not all are matters of
life and death. Indeed, many just help eradicate pointless self-made stress.
I’ve lost count of the times I’ve made this journey, from Edgware up the M1 to
Luton; refuel the rental car; return the rental car and take the shuttle to the
terminal; check in.
Hardly
Shackleton, but invariably I massively overestimate how long it’s all going to
take, because there might be a 24 truck pile-up on the M1 or my car might blow
up and I’ll have to hitch to the airport and you can see where this is going,
can’t you? I end up leaving the hotel ridiculously early to avoid the stress of
having to worry about being late for my plane, always arriving at the terminal
an hour before the check-in desk is even open.
Thankfully
I have the ability to stare into space for hours, so being early is great, save
for the fact that I could have had another hour in bed.
That might
have been nice.
On
this trip my flight home leaves Luton a few hours later than normal, so there’s
a chance I could be there crazily early, and that would be plain stupid, so I
spend most of the day mentally reminding myself not to pack before I go to bed.
Just
relax, sleep on, chill out, and then pack after a shower in the morning.
Shoofty
shoofty. Easy does it.
Right,
but there’s this other part of me: the control freak anal retentive be ready
for anything alpha male leader ug ug chest hairs sprouting that does not allow
slack behaviour.
So
with this erratic alarm going off in my ears, I’m immediately able to slip into
my ready-laid out clothes (and when I say laid out, I mean in a pile of order
dressed; sad but true), slide into my available boots and zip up my
already-packed bag.
Throwing
on my overcoat, I enter a corridor lined by people with bleary eyes wearing
jim-jams, hanging out of their bedroom doors, asking each other what the hell’s
going on.
Just
like me, they can’t understand keeps sounding on and off intermittently, and
there's no staff to be seen.
Suddenly
they all stop talking. They’re all looking at me, standing there fully-clothed
to airport-smart standards, as if I’d somehow expected all this to happen.
“Bloody
‘ell mate! You’re ready a bit bloody sharpish, encha?”
Smiling
as I walk past them, I successfully resist the temptation to scream
“Yes
I’m ready, but that’s because I’m a neurotic freak and not because I’m a bloody
arsonist, okay! I didn’t start the fire, all right?!”
because
that might possibly sound a tad suspicious.
Down
in the lobby the night porter is pressing buttons on an electrical board, but
it’s all pretty chaotic.
Eventually
we’re sent back to our rooms, assured that all is safe. Doesn’t feel very safe,
but I need sleep.
In the
morning I ask a member of staff if they are trained to come up to the corridors
when a fire alarm goes off. He doesn’t understand my question. I ask two
others, who point out the letter of apology we all had shoved under our bedroom
doors, but it’s not until I speak to a third person behind the reception desk
that I’m assured that there should have been staff up in the corridors, guiding
us to a fire escape.
However,
my favourite comment of the night came from the 30something wide boy salesman
in the room next to mine. While we were standing in the corridor, unsure
whether we were in danger of being burnt to a crisp in a raging inferno, he’d
referenced Premier Inn’s guarantee of a good night’s sleep or your money back.
“Free
night for us mate. That’s what this is! Guaranteed!”
No comments:
Post a Comment