In the midst of global and political chaos, I have to admit, I’m quietly excited. Not – of course – because an egomanical misogynistic neo-Nazi has won the US election. I am not a nutter. Something more domestic is quietly exciting me.
Tonight, tonight (can you hear the excitement?) I will be staying in a hotel room. By myself.
Let me repeat that. Tonight. A hotel room. By myself.
There will be no:
- Snoring from the other side of the bed
- 3 a.m. breastfeeding
- Returning to bed to find TheBloke(TM) spitefully sprawling across my pillow
- Nightmares about a) The Gruffalo b) wolves c) aliens
TheBloke(TM) will be looking after YoungestGirl – finally he’ll get a turn at breastfeeding. About time he had a go, the feckless lump. EldestGirl is with Grandma and Grandad for the weekend.
So at the hotel, there will just be me, doing bed-based star shapes, by myself.
The reason for the hotel stay is tomorrow I’m off to Blogfest, a meetup of bloggers where I shall ineptly attempt to network, almost certainly make some really inappropriate attempts at jokes (see: the time I exclaimed “I have chapped lips. Chapped FACIAL LIPS! Oh God, not the other ones!” whilst running a training course), then stand in a corner, pretend to be on my phone and hope nobody talks to me for the rest of the day.
Blogfest is in London and it doesn’t start until tomorrow morning, meaning I will have 14 beautiful night-time hours to do what I will in my favourite city in the world. Ruminating on the possibilities, I narrowed it down to:
- A night at my favourite comedy club
- A swanky meal somewhere special
- A hot last-minute theatre deal
But then I remembered. I have a hotel room. By myself. It turns out that all things considered, the thing I would most like to do with 14 special hours is… to be unconscious. The bar is set high, Blogfest. Can you be more enjoyable than sleep?