We’ve arrived at Poshly Towers for our annual trip to the Lake District with my mother in law. Himself is hefting the bags from the car, I’m sent in to register. The smiling receptionist tells me, with huge delight, that we have adjoining rooms.
We’ll draw a veil over that. Door wedged and headboard secured – one soldiers on.
If only we could draw a veil over what happened next. He digs into his bag and announces, ‘I’ve forgotten to pack any clothes’, pulling out a pair of sandals.
?!?!? So what the hell IS in there? And what is he going to wear for the Poshly Towers a-la-carte?
Then he adds ‘And I’ve got a really big hole in this teeshirt,’ unzipping his fleece to show a ragged hole. He appears to have been shot, or have inherited the teeshirt from a shooting victim.
I do a quick search to see if there’s a sewing kit, then we try to see if we can score a teeshirt with the name of the hotel on (they’ve sold out). He flatly refuses to wear my black top. It is a little low cut and does have long tails, but they could be tucked out of harm’s way.
Last resort. I colour in the pink skin directly behind the hole with black eyeliner. Wasn’t my proudest moment.