Memoirs of a Travelling Man, by Peter Morford

In my early days  my expense allowance limited me to the rather lower class of hotel. Ensuite? Most unlikely.  TV? Lounge available. Bar? Sometimes, but not in the small, family-run establishments.

            Meals were at set times. There would be a queue for the bathroom. The attitude of the staff was often at least aloof, as though they were doing us a favour by allowing us to give them a living. The guests were, for the most part, travelling salesmen and minor executives; suited chaps with small company cars.

            I remember a place in Essex. I had booked in advance and arrived at 6.30 to be greeted by a spinsterly harridan.

            “I have a reservation,” I said.

            “Name?”

            I told her.

            “You’ll be wanting dinner I suppose.”

            “Please.”

            “It’s at 7 pm sharp. Don’t be late.”

            Thus admonished I realised I had thirty minutes to change into something comfortable. Heaving my case up the two flights I found my room. I was about to remove my tie, then thought again. This was a formal place where suits and ties were to be demanded.

            The dining room had five tables, twenty chairs.  Two oldish men in tweed suits occupied the table in the window with its commanding view of the petrol station. Three other tables had one diner each.  I took the last free table. Four solos, one couple.

            As a remote clock struck seven the waitress came in. And what a girl!  Tall, short dress, tempting figure, blue-eyed real blonde of the Teutonic variety with the arrogance to match. Satisfied that we were all present she was ready to serve us. When I asked to see the menu she said,      “Souplambmitvegetablesicecreamandundcoffee,” all in one word over her departing left shoulder.

            Nobody wanted to break the silence. The old guys in the window stared at the view as if hoping it would change.

            When the Rhine Maiden brought our soup we whispered our thanks.

            It was still light when I finished my icecreamundcoffee.  The Rhine Maiden surged in to collect the last dishes. It was time for us to leave.  What to do with the rest of my evening?

            “Er – excuse me, where is the bar?” I asked the RM.

            “We don’t have a bar – there’s a public house a kilometre that way,” she pointed.

            “A TV room?”

            “On the first floor. It’s tuned in to BBC1”

            “The football’s on ITV,” I said bravely.

            “Herr Jenkins is already watching Panorama.”

            I decided to go for a walk in the rain.

            Breakfast was 8.30. Having beaten the bath queue I was first in the dining room. I chose the window table.

            Rhine Maiden wasn’t taking that.  She swept in.  “You’re sitting in Herr Jenkins’s, place,” she said. To my shame I apologised. In her moment of victory she finished me off with “That’s your table – over there.”  I took the five steps to my little fiefdom and sat down, just as Mr Jenkins and his friend took their place in the sun.