Mon chair

Who'd have thought there'd be so many ways to put an arse on a seat?

In our Crawley hotel they had made a real effort with some unusual furniture. I think they were trying to give their guests something to look at inside seeing as the view outside was . . . well, Crawley.

As well as stuff to look at, you can also give your (predominantly business-folk) guests something to do inside. Rather than install a Wii in every room, they've gone for the cheaper option of allowing some unnoticeable horizontal recreation between colleagues by providing an "affair door" between adjacent rooms:

Ours started rattling at three in the morning, but if you think I'm going to open it when there's a distinct possibility of a horny accountant being on the other side, you've got another thing coming. I'd rather face the manic axe clowns that live under my bed than that.

"Heeeeeere's Coco!"

Mostly, though, the rooms were fairly standard en suite jobbies, with most of the effort having gone into the public areas. They had a six metre tall waterfall downstairs in their foyer-cum-cafe-cum-waiting room-cum-vaulted space.

That's a lot of cum.

In addition, they had installed some interesting chairs.

Having just typed that, I think that could be a contender for the most boring sentence on the t'internet, just after "Bookkeeping is usually done by a bookkeeper." and on a par with "The adventure began with wallpaper."

Still, I'm gonna go with it, because what's the worse that can happen?

No, don't go! I'll be interesting, honest. I'll post some pictures so you don't have to read, you can just let your brain absorb information, like by all osmosis and that. You like pictures don't you? That's it. Come back. Yeeesss. Pictures.

Of chairs:

Look at that. Eggs! Those chairs are like eggs which have been over-boiled so that the yolks have gone that funny mix of yellowy-green and black where you're not sure if it's okay to eat them, but you don't want to waste it because a chicken suffered to push that out of it's straining cloaca for you, and would be quite upset if it's unfertilized ovum was simply wasted, so you sort of eat it with a frown because when the yolk falls out of the white it looks like one of those little rubber power balls that's been held in a grubby child's dirty mitts on a hot afternoon.

Happily, these eggs were for sitting on, and the yolk even folded in and out for easy storage. They looked interesting, and my son played with them for forty minutes whilst I sorted out a pint of Kronenburg and the missus had a glass of her current favourite tipple, baby Guinness, which is a Tia Maria and Bailey's poured so one rests on top of the other like a tiny pint of the Black Stuff.

Tastes like sweeties.

So, we've established that the hotel had chairs like eggs. They were about as comfortable as sitting on a pile of half-open laptops, but they were more for decoration so it's okay.

But, be still my beating heart, there was another type of chair that I actually thought was quite groovy:

It's a hand. An hand. In an hotel.

I actually thought this was fairly clever, especially as they'd managed to make arm rests out of opposing digits without warping the anatomy unrecognisably (although you try making that shape without having fingers deviating from arthritis and you'll end up having fingers deviating from arthritis).

It was a bit more comfortable as well, feeling like you'd simply sat down on some barnacles that were clinging to a giant King crab.

Now there's an idea for a chair.

Fascinating (?) though the furniture was, people were mostly sitting on the comfy sofas, possibly so they could look at the other furniture, which sort of defeats the object of those objects.

From the hotel's point of view however, they must have been considered a success, for I actually saw some daft tourist taking photos of them. Madness! I mean, how sad is that, to go to a hotel and take photos of the furniture?

Er . . .

Happily, I am above lowly, mortal considerations of decorum and personal space, because I serve a higher power. *

Blogging.



*For all your self-justifying needs, come to the Gravel Farm (Nazi's and Estate Agents need not apply, unless they're very rich).