Locked in
I've actually had mostly pleasant hotel experiences, save the time, aged nine, that my overactive imagination decided that the place Must Be Haunted.

Then there was the time I got locked in a hotel room. It was a dirty weekend with the Prince Consort of Cheesecake, and we were staying in one of those cheapish hotels that have some kind of smart lock system. No key, but a magical card that also turns the lights on and off.

We settle in, and after some joyous shagging and a giggle at the rude bits in the Gideon bible, we decided to hit the pub.

I go to the door and try to open it. Nothing happens.

"Fuck's sake, Queeny, you're so weak," my beau remarks and manfully strides towards the door.

Nothing happens.

As we grumble at one another and repeatedly jiggle the handles, kick the door, try to stick the key-card anywhere it will go, attempt Jedi mindtricks, etc, I start looking for a camera. Perhaps this is a social psychology experiment.

Things are looking grim, so I start looking around for the hotel number. For some reason, it is not printed on the free literature. Neither is it in my phone. And I will not, I repeat will not, spend valuable money on Directory Enquiries.

Sadly, this is the course I must pursue. The receptionist laughs as I bleat, "We're stuck in our room." Someone is sent at last.

They cannot get the bastard door open for a good half hour.

As this was a cheap hotel, we didn't even get upgraded to a luxury suite. Sigh.
( Queen of Cheesecake, Fri 18 Jan 2008, 16:44, Reply)