YES Dammit, I AM!!

What can I say, maybe the link is a little tenuous but, despite being mistaken for a hooker I DID come out of this feeling pretty FAB!

"One day I went to Salisbury, to see a friend of mine

We decided to go out clubbing, and have a really good time

The club was dark and dismal (the music pretty crap)

I was just thinking of leaving when on my shoulder I felt a tap"

The first verse of a poem I wrote oh ….. god, it must be nearly 20 years ago!

It was written almost at the end of a relationship. A relationship that had lasted for quite a while but was drawing to an end. No bitterness, no recriminations just circumstances.

It was during this relationship that I had my first taste (although NOT my last, see previous humiliation) of being classed as a hooker.  I have to say the assumption was possibly far more justified this time than it was subsequently but again, Id have to question why anyone would think that the person I was with couldn’t have done a little better for themselves.

Funnily enough, on both occasions my left leg had suffered some kind of injury or trauma.

This time I was bandaged from thigh to ankle and on crutches having snapped my kneecap in half while drunkenly attempting to put my foot on someone’s shoulder.

Anyway, as you can imagine, this somewhat curtailed the physical side of our relationship and as we were both young and (usually) quite fit it became a little frustrating after a while.

We lived some distance apart and I didn’t (and still don’t) drive so our meetings either involved a short train ride for me or him driving down to see me.

Getting on and off trains with crutches and a leg that wont bend is nigh on impossible so the onus fell on him. 

It wasn’t a problem but, there are only so many cups of coffee you can (or would want) to drink. Staying over where I lived wasn’t really practical (and no, no, NO, don’t even GO there, I wasn’t married!) and to be honest, after a couple weeks we were both feeling the strain.

On impulse we decided to book into a hotel one afternoon for a couple of illicit hours.

Somewhere big and anonymous would have been the obvious answer but, living in a town that boasts the County Cricket Ground and was hosting the South African cricket team at the time has it’s disadvantages (the advantages for those who are interested in cricket was the chance to go clubbing with Joel Garner, Viv Richards, Ian Botham and the like on a fairly regular basis). All the big hotels had been booked solid by visiting fans.

We ended up in the aptly named Salisbury House hotel.

A small boutique hotel where personal service is their watchword and they cater to your every need.

‘Can I take your luggage Sir/Madam’,  ummm,  noooo ………….

‘Which paper would you like in the morning?’ ahhh,  none …………

‘Do you have any special requirements for breakfast?’ well, actually ……………..

‘ARE YOU A HOOKER?????’

Ok, they didn’t actually ask THAT question but they were THINKING it!

My passion was further dampened at the sight of the sweeping staircase. Climbing stairs involved building up the momentum to swing my left leg out to the side and practically throw it up to the next stair while clinging on to the banister for balance. Getting back down was going to either involve sliding down the banister or shuffling down on my bum. Damn them for not having a lift!

I looked at my leg and then the staircase. The concierge looked at my leg and then the staircase. My partner in crime looked at my leg and then at the staircase. ‘I prefer it when they can’t run away’ he said perfectly straight faced ….. BASTARD!!!

20 ardour killing minutes later I made it to the room, completely bloody knackered and burning with humiliation. I couldn’t even collapse on the bed or rip my clothes off with abandon as my damn leg had to be picked up and placed where ever it was I wanted it to be and getting undressed was possibly the most unromantic two person operation you could imagine.

When we checked out a couple of hours later I sent …………..(ok, to protect the very guilty I won't name names) to make sure the coast was clear before I took the walk of shame across the reception that seemed to stretch for miles.

I had barely picked myself up from the bottom stair (yep, I’d opted for the bum shuffle) when a door opened and the very concerned concierge appeared. 

'Leaving so soon?' 

'Is there a problem? '

'Can I be of any assistance?'

'ARE YOU A HOOKER????'

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