I keep thinking that I should check myself into a hotel for the weekend. That way I would finally be able to read that book I wanted to, without interruption. I would try really hard not to fall asleep on the big comfy bed…
I keep thinking if I checked into a hotel, I could, at last, put together my stories in the form of a book, because I would have peace, perfect peace, to sprinkle my bits of paper all over the mattress and tap away on my netbook.
I wouldn’t have to dash off to the nursery and pick up a little person. Or break up a fight. Or taxi anyone to the doctors/party/shops/rehearsals. I wouldn’t have to make lunch. In fact, I could
laze around work hard on my paper strewn bed, and intermittently dial ’0′ for reception and request the delivery of lunch. Or a hot chocolate. Or a piece of cake. Or a glass of prosecco…
I keep thinking how nice it would be to have a whole weekend, in a hotel, to get some solid work done. I could spend hours writing without interruption. I wouldn’t need to join in a game or load the dishwasher or answer the telephone or take in a parcel for the neighbour or run to the chemist or debate the weather with the clouds and try not to get caught out at the last minute, by a downpour soaking my almost bone dry washing.
I keep wondering: what kind of hotel?
One with a pool, perhaps. So I could swim each morning and feel refreshed.
Naturally, I could also swim in the afternoon. And in the evening too. Just to make the most of it…
One with snuggly bath robes, perhaps. So I wouldn’t have to waste time dressing. I could just work in comfort on the bed. And have a little snooze every time I felt the need…
One with a great chef, would be a plus. So I could feed my tired body and exhausted mind.
Maybe it could have a sauna to sweat away my worries, oh and a masseuse to relieve my aches and pains…
I am starting to think, it would be beneficial to stay there for a long weekend…
After all, then I’d get a lot more work done.
And more use of the pool.
And perhaps, I could catch up on some sleep.
And do that book review I promised.
And catch up on a few blogs.
And order hot chocolate.
With whipped cream.
And a flake.
And banana slices.
The chef would be so highly talented, he would be able to balance all of the toppings on the surface, without any of them running down the side.
The porter would be so highly balanced, he would deliver the entire artwork to my room, without spilling a single drop.
All, while I cuddled my pillow, in my extraordinarily comfy bathrobe…
I’d take my hot chocolate – into my jacuzzi – in my en suite bathroom.
A perfumed smell would permeate the room…
After a long soak, and three more hot chocolates, I could consider going to the in-hotel beauty consultant and having my hair done.
That would, of course, include a head massage.
And a complimentary facial.
Then, looking my best, I’d head down to dinner.
Be poured wine by a good-looking, friendly waiter.
I’d eat, drink and be giggly.
Then I’d wander to my massive water-bed all alone. Put on the provided over-sized plasma and settle down and watch a romantic comedy.
I keep wondering, would it be too presumptuous to book my hotel for a week?