3am Short thoughts
We are in a posh hotel. There is a proper pool full of narky octogenarians. One is tutting his baby bird baldy head at the Mighty Headed Boy screeching his delight as he floats solo for the first time. My prejudices assume he voted “Out”. When, later on, he coos to Didsbury Wife over the Pearly Princess she sums it up perfectly. ” Sometimes arseholes realise they’re arseholes and try to make amends.” With thoughts of vengeance sidelined in a sentence I go happily back to getting kicked, scratched and pulled around by a four year old boy who has subconsciously decided swimming is his “thing”. Didsbury’s first Downton Abbey themed hotel is very convincing.
Despite the pukkaness of this place I am mid a disturbed night. They have parked all the family rooms down a corridor opposite the loading bay and Midnight is prime loading time apparently. This cranks up my middle of the night head. Between bouts of being told off for snoring and being edged out of bed by 3 stone of persistent princess I’m naval gazing.
In these moments Facebook is not your friend. The range of voice in my Twitter feed always gives me something to divert my attention. At 3am Facebook appears to be full of “friends” on holiday, doing more, being better people and is like looking at a catalogue of what you should have done. In daylight I know I will have liked actions and thoughts I hope others regret, but the 3am Facebook voyeur has a lack of discretion.
I can also tell you that typing “Facebook Voyeur” into Google whilst sitting in bed with children is not a good idea.
One thing I do like about really nice hotels is trying to working out how to get the mattresses out without being noticed. It’s previous history never concerns me. I lie here marvelling at not having to move around as it holds me with the ease and support of a new mother. The pillows are crap but if I could get the window to open further than 3cm I’d have it strapped to the people carrier to replace the unwitting imitation waterbed currently taking up space in the bedroom. We’re not here