My Dirty Weekend — Gráinne Maguire

I adore old city hotels. Not the expensive corporate chains, but the ones that don’t even have a website yet. The Victorian white terrace buildings near big train stations with names like Hotel Avalon, where the lobby smells of cornflakes and all bookings are probably still made by formal letters in the post.

When I see holidaymakers emerge from them, I feel a rush of excitement. They are on holiday in London, and I am, but an extra in their film, my role being solely to create atmosphere. There is no one as fascinating as locals walking by the hotel in a strange city at 9.15 in the morning. I always want to grab them by their lapels and shout- Where are you going? When I walk by these hotels in the morning, I am that mysterious stranger, living my unknowable London life. I want to shout “To the palace! Her Majesty must hear the news from the port!” and give the satisfied holidaymaker a little wink.

It's only city hotels that have that mystery. Sunny countries have clean marble hotels, with no character, no shadows, no secrets. They are only there as a pit stop before the guests head outside. You are not supposed to linger. Resort hotels have stories that fit on postcards, city guest houses have tales to tell.

My appreciation began when I was eight and my family went on holiday to a creaking Victorian B&B in Douglas, on the Isle of Man. The rickety stairs, the stale carpets, the abandoned historical romance novels in bookshelves by the reception desk. This was where I belonged.

I imagined myself reading on a small veranda with a blanket over my lap, taking a morning walk around a nearby square and maybe, if my energy permitted, a trip to a museum. Most of my time however would be spent writing letters forlornly on a desk in my room, looking sadly out the window. I’m Flora, a giddy but socially conscious Edwardian socialite who had become pregnant by a communist I met at a violin recital. I’d sent him my boarding address and hoped he would come visit before I was forced to flee by train to Germany to avoid disgrace. I’d imagine myself pitifully asking the front desk if there was any post for me, before returning defeated to the tea room, hiding my bump behind large vases to conceal my shame. It all sounded much more fun than a caravan holiday in Clogher Head, being forced to swim in the stupid smelly sea.

Finally, after my boyfriend's 40th birthday, I finally had my chance to stay in the central London hotel of my E.M. Foster fantasy. I came back from work, the day after Mehul’s party, ready to die.

I have this annoying (for me) habit where I borrow people's hangovers for them. Mehul had spent the entire night drinking shots and sweatily asking when the karaoke was going to start every 3 minutes, while I rushed around making sure everyone had had cake, and yet he was fresh as a daisy, while I felt like Chernobyl had exploded in my head. You can be swinging from the chandeliers while I hold your coat and in the morning I will be swinging from the toilet bowl while you head off for a run. I think it’s because I’m such a people pleaser, I literally soak up other peoples toxins through the power of co-dependency.

Anyway, it was Saturday evening, I had not showered in more than 24 hours, the flat was covered in the wreckage of the after-party, and my fresh faced birthday boy casually let me know our water supply had stopped working. There was only one sensible yet ridiculous option: go stay in a hotel for the night.

I’ll be honest, Hotel Avalon, by Paddington station wasn't quite how I imagined. Instead of a ticking grandfather clock, chorus girls chattering on the entrance hall telephone and spinster aunts playing cards, there was a fish tank and a small table with leaflets about bus tours to Stonehenge. My boyfriend approached the check-in desk as I quietly burped, sweated and swayed, putting all my effort into trying not to pass out.

“So,” the man at reception said, scrolling down his computer screen, “I’ll just check your details. When did you make the booking?”

“15 minutes ago” my boyfriend confirmed.

He paused and looked over at me, as if noticing me for the first time. I stared glumly at the plant I was sure I was about to vomit into.

He audibly hmmed.

“Are you sure this is your postcode? That’s only a five minute walk from here.”

“Yes” my boyfriend confirmed “I just live around the corner”

The receptionist looked over at me, now just taking long slow breaths, wondering how far my bodily stench would travel. There was a long pause, before he slowly nodded and sighed with the knowledge of what he had to say.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid this isn’t going to work. We’ve had too much trouble with this before. If she stays, legally we have to ring a helpline.”

Oh great. The hotel thought I was a trafficked sex worker. Brilliant.

I should have been insulted but as we wobbled back to our stinking flat, I paused and said to Mehul.

“It’s fine. I was always worried that’s how things would end for Flora”.