I typing this at my soon-to-be deserted desk in the office. Today is a half-day as Mrs O and I are off on hols this afternoon. I'm shooting off at 12.30 (a little over an hour's time). The plan is to hook up with the spouseuse at Stansted, and then to jet off to Jerez.
Normally we rent apartments when we're away, but as this is a mini-break, we're staying in hotels. Luckily, southern Spain is relatively cheap so we can stretch to four and five-star hotels for the duration. But staying in places like this unnerves me. I'll be honest with you: I'm a low-born cock-er-knee urchin at heart. I know I carry myself with a world-weary and distrait sophistication, but that's all bullsh1t. In fact I'm an impostor in polite society. And the staff at posh hotels can spot rotters like me, even ones from abroad, from about 700 yards. This puts me on the back foot. I feel ill-at-ease all the time. Should I tip this chap? If so, how much etc. It's a decidedly first world problem, I grant you, but it is a worry.
Soy posh, sí.
No comments:
Post a Comment