london trouble #1

Tim was tired.  He worked most of the week.  And he, like so many other humans, snores. And on Thursday night, after having five nights without the snoring, I couldn’t seem to make myself get to that unconscious state where dreams take over and external sounds dissipate.  So instead, I, with my sleep-deprived decision making skills, decided to walk out of our room in pajamas and socks, pillow in tow, to the lobby on our floor next to the elevators and set up camp on a miniature couch overlooking London and the Thames. 

Not twenty minutes later a big, burly security guard comes up to me and asks if I’m staying at the hotel.  Which, in security guard-speak means: explain yourself or else.

I don’t think I answered him.  Instead I freaked out and shot up to a sitting position on the couch and tried to cover my ass with my pillow, worrying he’d try to get fresh or sneak a peek.  Horrifying thoughts ran through my mind. Tim would wake up and wouldn’t be able to find me.  The hotel neither confirming or denying that they may or may not have extradited a woman last night. I’d be on a plane… just me and the pillow and a lifetime of trying to explain to our future children that no, mommy is not a criminal.  She just couldn’t sleep.

Five minutes into his initial question I was still trying to figure out what happened.  I never heard a door close or an elevator open.  Where did he come from?!?  My brain was racing.  Who reported a girl with bed-head on a couch on the 11th floor at two in the morning because I surely didn’t see anyone.  And if no one reported me, where was the camera?  And did it have sound?  Because I think I might have farted… and I certainly do not aforementioned future children to think is it ok to let ’em rip in public until they’ve learned art of subtlety, where you can pass the noise off on a creaky door or squeaky chair and the smell to the person next to you (thanks for taking one for the team, Honey).

Somewhere between the sputtering of my name and the fact that I didn’t come with plastic bags or a dog or yesterdays newspaper plastered to my head, Mr. Safeguard-the-Hotel-from-all-Bums realized I was legit.  So instead of apologizing and leaving, he looks out the window, and begins to make small talk, commenting about the rain, and then realizing he has terrified me, says they just have to make sure “people from the streets” don’t cop a squat in the hotel.

I think I said a lot of “uh-huhs” and “yeahs.”  I tried to figure out the rest of what he was saying but I just heard noise with a few words.  His accent was over what my current mental capacity could handle over the alarms going off in my head screaming GET OUT! GET OUT! EXIT STRATEGY!”  I kept listening for “arrested” or “trouble” or “leave” allthewhile trying to refrain from saying, “I don’t want to talk.  Please leave.  Now.  Go find someone else to interrogate or kick out.  It is two in the morning and I don’t care if it’s raining peacocks and hobnobs.  I’m not exactly in a chummy kind of mood. Why are you still talking?”

The second he walked off I made sure he was gone from whatever secret entrance he came from and then made the walk-of-shame back to our hotel room as fast as my socked feet would take me, making a mental note to never attempt that little stunt again.  Our hotel room would have to be on fire or infested with a hundred pissed off, vengeful skunks before I’d leave after hours.  Snoring?  That no longer even QUALIFIES for a Plan B.

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2 Responses to “london trouble #1”


  1. 1 Derek May 25, 2009 at 7:39 pm

    lol. Seems like one of those fluke things that happen. I’ve worked security before and you’ll run into two different types of guards. The first (me) treats it like any other job and really doesn’t care that much. The second, someone that has a chip on their shoulder that enjoys their authority.


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