LODGINGS Part I

So Bloggiana and I find ourselves in a northern Cathedral city where we are due to spend four whole nights and five whole days. Something to do with Bloggiana’s outgoing spouse who is refusing to outgo so she has had to take the whole thing to higher authorities and battle it out. Bloggiana is poor and so am I and when we cast around for somewhere to stay, we find to our dismay that the local hotels are expensive and that there is no single B&B within easy range of the court. That is how we come to stay in lodgings.

According to the website for The Sobbing Buccaneer, which is the lodgings we choose, The Sobbing Buccaneer is not lodgings. It is a hotel. The Sobbing Buccaneer is a hotel because customers can come and go as they please. It is a hotel because breakfast is served, both cooked and cold. It is a hotel because, like Mrs Couldn't-be-more-Helpful-if-she-Tried the proprietress, it has been up and running in the city for many years and boasts a reputation second to none.

Day one. Bloggiana and I do not as yet have our key so we arrive early and ring the bell. For a good few minutes, we stand waiting. We ring again and when Mrs Couldn't-be-more-Helpful-if-she-Tried comes to the door, she is furious. Her bottle-white hair bristles and her slippers scuff along the parquet in onomatopeoic rage. Yes? she says, though somehow we cannot help feeling the question is rhetorical. Boldly, Bloggiana and I ask to be shown to our room, the twin room we booked, the one with facilities. Mrs Couldn't-be-more-Helpful-if-she-Tried leads us ponderously upstairs. Behind the quivering tower of her C&A dress, we try not to sound impatient though Bloggiana is worried that our date with the judge is looming. We hurl our belongings into the room, noting in haste that the ong sweet facilities are so small, we might have to shower one limb at a time, then grab our keys from Mrs CBMHIST's reluctantly outstretched paw and run downstairs to snatch some breakfast.

Dining room. Mrs Couldn't-be-more-Helpful-if-she-Tried seems to have transformed into a hologram of herself. She too calls herself Mrs Couldn't-be-more-Helpful-if-she-Tried but she is short and thin and Gothic-black. When we ask for breakfast, she says Full English or continental. Bloggiana is polite enough to request a definition of the FE and is told sharply she may have eggs, sausage, tomato, mushrooms and toast. Would it be possible just to have the toast with a boiled egg? Bloggiana asks timidly. We’re not set up for that, comes the response. We don’t have the space on our cooker.

Day two. Dining room. This morning, there is yet another Mrs Couldn't-be-more-Helpful-if-she-Tried on duty. Mrs CBMHIST mk3 is plump, a kind of Pilsbury dough-woman, with a pinny and a smile which at first we believe in. Would I be able to have a boiled egg? Bloggiana gamely asks. Mrs CBMHIST mark three looks appalled. Don’t do those, she replies. But I suppose I could poach you one, she volunteers expansively.

Day three. Dining room, again. Mrs Couldn't-be-more-Helpful-if-she-Tried version 2 is back. Her lips look almost blue, they are so pinched. In her sweetest voice, Bloggiana says yesterday I had a delicious poached egg. Would I by any chance be able to have another one today? Mrs Gothic-blue-lips makes a noise inside her mouth like the sound of breaking molars. We’re not set up for those, she barks. But I could boil you an egg, I suppose. Only you’ll have to wait, she adds enigmatically. Our water can take a long time to heat up.