Windsor. An evocative name to most Englishman. Our Gracious Queen. Davies. Babs. Knot. Soup.
Sadly my current digs simply do not do the name justice. One example at breakfast mixes hotels California and Fawlty Towers.
Taking my place at breakfast next to Tim, a monosyllabic Swede on a spiritual journey, and Sailesh, an Indo-Finnish physician, and careful not to place my elbow in the left overs from the previous diner’s visit, I take a moment to get my bearings. I order breakfast.
Sailesh isn’t short of a word or too. Tim is. I’m treated to the former’s views on everything from Sai Bibi to Angry Birds, Steve Jobs to Swedish women, gurus, ice hockey, Finland, Finland, Finland. The nutty professor is in his element and none more so than in his intermittent admonishment of our waiter.
Yes, he is a complete moron. But there’s no need to remonstrate quite so pointedly and dramatically.
Then Kevin, a Londoner, and a veteran of more than one of such morning matinees, informs me he is the worst waiter in the world.
Paratha? No, omelette. Chai? Yes, where is it?
Minutes later. More talking. I scan the room and the punters. Remembering, I tiptoed through these very facilities about eight hours ago to the fridge for a bottle of water and in the process woke up a dozen or so kitchen staff scattered around the dining room floor…..
Coffee? No chai. Please. Omelette? Yes, where is it?
The chef’s dog makes a nuisance of itself in the passageway between dining room and kitchen….
The omelette eventually arrives. Chai? Yes, where is it?
The fixtures and fittings of the dining room are, in keeping with the rest of this squalid place, awful. Shit beige and shit shit coloured walls, the chairs are the the same colour. The tables are the like the ones you keep meaning to take down the tip but always find a reason not too.
Coffee? No, chai. Oh for, fu….
I’ve got coffee.
Meanwhile, seemingly having exhausted his repertoire of soliloquies, Sailesh has left the waiter alone and turned his interrogation on Tim. “So you have family?” “Yes, a brother.” “You must fight a bit, yes?” “It is hard to do when he is disabled.”
Silence.
Time to shampoo the cat. Or stick pins in my eyes. Or see if they can rename the hotel something more appropriate.
Like Bon Jovi. Or Ronaldo. Or Balls.
November 30, 2012
henrywisson
2 responses to “Communication Problems”
Sianee
November 30th, 2012 at 09:48
Very insightful blogging fella…sounds like you’re definitely meeting some characters….sounds awesome! Coffee is good :o) xxx
Nigel
November 30th, 2012 at 22:52
Brilliant!! Thanks for the mention on the previous blog. I’ll not ask where you hid your mobile or your iPad to get into the stadium? Did it leave you with a funny walk?
This last blog caused tears of laughter, which would have been good had I not been sneakily sporting a quick glance of your writings whilst sitting at my desk on a Friday afternoon!
You’ll be pleased to know its starting to feel like home over here….we had heavy fog last week and it hasn’t stopped raining for two days – so us Brits are getting funny looks as we go and splash in puddles outside, whilst the Septics cower indoors like the rain is some form of acid on their skin!