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).

Where is the giver of treasure?

The wondering wanderer returns, wondering if wandering about wondering, or indeed wandering, is worth wondering about.

Since I have been away, it seems that the blog world didn't also stop and I have some serious catching up to do. I don't know why this surprised me. Maybe, subconsciously, I had presumed that I was like some sort of cyber-Bagpuss, and that when I didn't blog, none of my friends would blog. In reality, I am probably more akin to Professor Yaffle, wittering on as though I know what I'm on about, when at the end of the day everyone knows I am nothing more than a bookend shaped like a woodpecker.

I really have to work on my similes.

Hands up how many of you read that as 'smilies'?

Hah, bet you feel daft now. You've got your hand up and you're probably on your own. Or in the library. Or one of those internet cafe things where they serve USB compatible paninis. I presume.

You may have noted that I have not got a particular subject in mind today, and am mainly posting because I haven't posted for a while and don't want my blog to rust, or get arthritis or blog-rot, or whatever it is an unused blog gets.

Considering I've just come back from an enjoyable week away in Croatia, I should have lots of things to blog about. And I have, but they're all jumbled up in my head at the moment, fighting it out with the after effects of premium strength lager and a berry aneurysm that I'm hoping will shrink any day now. As soon as they coalesce into something approaching viable blog-fodder, I'll spew them up and out like a lumpy broth of lukewarm brain-vomit for you to splash about in.

I also need to work on my metaphors.

I will, however, compare and contrast the views of the hotels we stayed in after leaving home. We went from Gatwick airport and so, in the interests of making things easy on ourselves, decided to stay over the night before as parking is included and it's not much more expensive than paying for parking only. You can pretend the holiday starts a day early. In Crawley.

The hotel was quite nice but they had to work with what they'd got, and in the middle of Crawley, what you get is the following view:


Oh wow! Is that . . . I believe it could be . . . the Inalnd Revenue office there? Is it? I think so . . . oh wait, no. My mistake. Looks very similar though. Never mind.

Compare that with the view we got from our room in Rovinj, Croatia:

See them? They're trees them are. They're relaxing, are trees. Well, the trees aren't relaxing themselves, obviously, I mean they're relaxing to look at. Unless they are relaxing. Do trees relax? They always seem so tense when you feel them.

As in Crawley though, there was a road nearby, and I saw cars on it nearly three times over the week, but I magnanimously decided not to complain.

I did get a few good pics out of my trip, and no doubt they will spill forth over the next few posts.
Be still your beating hearts, eh?



Another thing whilst I was away was that I got an award! Yay me! Go me! Gimme an Em. Em! Gimme an Ee! Ee! Me!

It was from the vunderful Vic at What Were You Thinking, a blog so full of talent that you could put a floppy hat on it and call it Sir Olivier, so if you haven't experienced her yet, then I recommend that you go and let her do her stuff to you right now.

Well, after you've finished here, I mean. come on. Be fair.

I've had the odd award before, which are usually in the form of a well-travelled internet meme, and comes with a set of rules and an attitude that suggests, if you don't accept it, you will be hunted down by the internet police and subjected to a vicious frowning.

This one is different though. Vic made it herself, and that, in my opinion, makes it a bit like when you get some dried macaroni and glitter stuck to a paper plate from a favourite niece, that you put up and treasure as if it was good art. You know, proper art, like one of those pre-Raphaelite fey maidens looking demurely at a rugged Prince in the distance, whilst wondering how big his willy is.

She even did her own award picture, with a capitalised P to show how respectful she is about my blog:

Now she has picked it, I am presuming she will move on to lick it, roll it and, in due course, flick it.

What more can a chap ask for?