Germany, it has to be said, is absolutely bloody freezing. It really isn’t necessary to be this cold. There has to be something in the Geneva Convention about evacuating countries when they’re this cold.
I realised yesterday that in this calendar year I have so far spent twice as many nights in hotel rooms as I have in my own bed. This is not due to my finding lucrative employment as a gigolo, more’s the pity, but did strike me as a little depressing in a strange sort of way.
It’s almost like living two entirely different lives. At home, for example, I don’t go straight from my bed to the shower. No, there are at least two cups of tea, some vacant staring into the middle distance and some light scratching to get through first before I can even consider it. At home I am never fully ablutionated and dressed before breakfast. At home I never drink coffee. Or make little rolls filled with cheese and ham. Or nod and smile cheerily at bleary waitresses hawking white plastic coffee pots. Or have to listen to Koreans hawking the contents of their throats. Or, as happened yesterday, be moved, forcibly and practically bodily, by a fearsome middle-aged German waitress to an entirely different table for a reason beyond me but that clearly irked her greatly, while in the middle of a bowl of muesli. At home I don’t eat muesli.
At home I don’t put a napkin on my lap at breakfast. At home I don’t have any napkins. At home I don’t place my doorkeys next to my breakfast plate. At home I don’t bid complete strangers a hearty good morning in the corridor. At home I don’t have complete strangers in the corridor. At home I don’t have a corridor.
Yet all this seems perfectly normal in a hotel. If I rolled out of bed this morning, having been woken as I was by the people in the next room having urgent, noisy intercourse with each other, and slouched into the breakfast room in t-shirt and shorts, puffy eyes and flying buttresses of hair sticking out at weird angles from the sides of my head, schlepped into the kitchens and started crashing around looking for the kettle and least stained mug, I’d be hoiked into the street without so much as a ‘by your leave’.
I can only conclude that I now live two entirely separate lives, only one of which comes with enormous, bulbous, heavy keyrings.