Cheap chain hotels, not as comfy as Lenny Henry says.

I am in a room. The carpet is dark blue with a hypnotic pattern on it. There, on the far side of the room are the remnants of what I assume to once have been a sofa bed. It is covered in another blue, which clashes beautifully with the carpet. There, by the bed, sits a single, long silvery grey hair. I wonder who it once belonged to. I wonder if they miss it. The rest of my home for the night is bare. I mean really bare. The bible on the bedside table looks lonely, desperate to be picked up and thumbed. I wonder if the owner of the grey hair read it. I wonder if they noticed how sparse their surroundings were. The overgrown flannel cruelly masquerading as a duvet is so thin, it may well have been painstakingly weaved together from cigarette papers. I have yet to visit the bathroom, hang on...............................yeah, it's rank, one thing made me smile though, the soap. It is a thin slither in a packet marked (and I kid you not) "Pure Quality". I bet it smells of despair. I am going to try and go to sleep. Hopefully, the lorries that are thundering jauntily by my window will serve as some sort of horrific lullaby. Night night.