My Missus
Used to work at a hotel in Belgravia, London, SWposh. The honeymoon suite had just been completely redecorated with provincial French furniture, a white four poster bed, white carpet, and a white sofa.
You know where this is going, don't you?
Young lady stayed for one night. It was the only room left, so she got the suite. She paid the money, and went upstairs. She left before breakfast was served at seven.
The chambermaids found the room at about 11am, with new clients ready to enjoy the beginning of their honeymoon by unpacking their luggage in there upsold suite.
The room was not pretty.
The woman had suffered a massive reboot of her ovarian operating system, and blood was EVERYWHERE.
Except the bathroom, oddly.
Cue my missus taking the credit card details of the woman who played banjo in Sergeant Zygote's Ragtime Band, and maxed the card out. Not just for cleanup, but for repairs. It was bad.
(w4I4q1O1 was hard at work on, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:07, 2 replies)

Repairs?
But...? What...?
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:09, closed)

I'm horrified
I'm frightened.
And I'm slightly confused. Though I don't know how much more of a detailed explanation I can stomach.

What the hell, try me.
(LongJohnBaldry, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:12, closed)