Day 684: I Am In A Best Western Hotel

Regular readers will be aware of my views of the Best Western hotel chain. Not only did I have the very great pleasure of staying in one in Southport, but some weeks later, fortune drew me to Cheadle, where I stayed in another of their 'establishments'.

"Why the bad hotels in dodgy parts of the North of England?", I hear you cry. A simple reason: dear friends marrying in places a very great distance from any other available hotel, a limited budget, a small car and a boot full of M&S patterned sockettes. But I digress.

It will come as no surprise that the news that the only hotel room available in Toronto this week was at the Best Western Primrose was met with some dismay. It is bad enough having to leave Montreal (interesting, fun, nice to look at, full of Frenchies) and go to Toronto (wishes it was New York; contains the CN Tower) to work, but having to leave Montreal to stay in a hotel that smells of death makes the whole commuting-to-Toronto-once-a-week arrangement make even less sense than it did at the beginning.

Still, in some ways my visit at the Best Western is pleasing, if only because it is reliably ghastly. For e.g.:

I check in

The receptionist is called Lindsay. She does not smile, or look at me in the face. The transaction is brief. The room card is left on the reception. I do not move. She glances up and shoves it at me. "This is your key". I leave.

I attempt to find a drink and light snack

I ring the button marked "Reception". There is an automated voice, much in the usual Best Western style. Eventually I speak to a real person.

Me: Do you have room service?
Person: No.
Me: Do you know where I can get a drink?
Person: No.
Me: Right. Just out of interest, if someone was desperate for a ham sandwich, could you do it?
Person: There is a Tim Hortons. Goodbye.

There is always a Tim Hortons, but I do not eat at Tim Hortons unless I am recovering from food poisoning and feel faint at Montreal airport.

I look about my room

It smells of death. The bathroom has black mouldy grout. The 'toiletries' have been used. There are two beds, and a kitchen that has nothing in it, not even a paper plate.

I make tea

It smells like an old ashtray.

I try to find the internets

It does not exist, unless I take it from the hotel next door.

I check the room rate

It is $209 a night. I am glad I am not paying.

Day 677: I Share Some Special Memories Of My Recent Weekend On The Road With My Parents

Day 672: I Wonder If There Is Anything Worse Than An Amateur Restaurant Critic

When one's parents are visiting from a land far away (of which more later; I am too weak to write much of it now confused, as I still am, by my father bellowing "look at that man! He is driving that lawnmower with his cock!" from the backseat of our Subaru only yesterday morning), it is as well to 'check up on' things before making any bookings; the margin for error is small, and my parents' (special) needs many.

I have of course used the internets for my researches, as I often do, and it has reminded me of the worst of all types: the amateur restaurant critic. I will share with you, unedited, the comments made by Mr CockBiscuit (not his real name!!) on 22 May about the restaurant booked for our tea tomorrow night.

"But when the aromas of dishes brought to neighboring tables waft past, you sit up a bit straighter and look a bit closer to the menu. By the way, the most delicate of animal tissue - fois gras, from small local farms - is available with every entre if you choose. My choice this evening was sweatbreads with chanteurelles in the lightest of cream based sun-dried tomato sauces. I ate as slowly as I could! ...

...We were not planning to have dessert, but their chocolate offering went by, and we had to call one in. With the lightest of light ice cream made from goat's milk, we found the divine end to a divine meal.

In our opinion, Toast! is Quebec City`s tip of the glass to fine gastronomie!"

In my opinion you, sir, are a preening cockmonkey!

Day 670: I Have Been Tagged (Again!!!)

Yes it is bloody Katy again! She has a mania for this sort of thing and I do not like to imagine why. But: to the point!

Here were her instructions: "It goes like this: you google “[your name] likes to” and then cut and paste the results." It did indeed go like that, and here are the results. They are all really accurate, especially the one about the rug!!!


Non-workingmonkey likes to ...

... bite her ears

... hold him down by the tail

... conduct each session as a friendly ‘chat’

... convey her somewhat queer imagination though the expressive medium of drawing

... jump and loves to lick you with gratitude

... do ninja kicks off the arm of the couch

... call herself a "yuppie farmer"

... portray a powerful persona over men by leading them on while her hand is in their back pockets emptying their wallet

... help by distributing the packing materials all over the house

... pull, but you put her in her "orthopaedic collar"

... chew things like blankets

... hide inside a rolled rug

And finally:

"I also have a box of turtles that NWM likes to sniff."

I do not have any online web-pals to tag anymore (apart from the aforementioned Katy, but she is more of a charity case), therefore have no-one to tag.

However, if you want to join in the game, see this as an 'open tag' (I have invented the term!!!) and just point out that you've done it/want to do it in the comments box below.

Yeah!

Day 664: I Brush Up My French

I have a great many hobbies, some of which involve the consumption of gin, many of which involve late nights atop a mound waiting for beavers, and none of which you would find were you to hunt for days in the 'hobbies' section of Borders.

So saying, most of my hobbies are harmless; one in particular may do a great deal of good. In it, I visit charity shops and church 'Bazars', as they are called here in French Canadia were I live, and exchange a few pounds (or 'loonies'!!!) for old books that I find amusing. Amusing, mind; not interesting or 'good'; amusing.

Yesterday's church 'Bazar' turned up a great many interesting items, including a Good Housekeeping guide to party games (1951), and a complete set of unused Marguerite Patten recipe cards, in their box, translated into French. (I am considering a new game, "Marguerite PotLuck", in which the veterinary research pathologist that I am proud to call 'driving partner' picks a card at random from the box; I must then cook the recipe, even if it is liver, bacon and orange paste en croûte, and we must eat it.)

My most prized find, however, was one of three language books I found (and these are my favourite category overall, as they usually contain excellent illustrations). It was published by the Daily Mail in 1932, i.e. before it became a newspaper for the simple-minded, and teaches French by telling the story of M. and Mme. Dupont, who leave their country residence for a spell in Paris.

It is astonishingly useful to me, as not only do I need to brush up my French (I am only partially bilingual; the part that orders ice-cream and asks where the station is), but I also need - as a matter of urgency - to start having some conversations of real use.

The format is simple: it is written in English, with the French translation on the opposite page. Dull, one would think; but no! M. and Mme Dupont have the most extraordinary lives, full of frank conversations with servants and shopkeepers, and teasing conversations with each other about wine.

I shall say no more. All I can do is offer some excerpts, each one "full of remarks that give me great pleasure", as the fruiterer says to Mme Dupont in lesson 54.









Coming soon: M. and Mme. Dupont tease each other mercilessly over the Montrachet, and Mme. Dupont discusses jugged hare with the butcher.