Hotel Hobbit

Hotel hobbies padding dawns hollow corridors
Bell boys checking out the hookers in the bar
Slug-like fingers trace the star-spangled clouds of cocaine on the mirror
The short straw took its bow

The tell tale tocking of the last cigarette
Marking time in the packet as the whisky sweat
Lies like discarded armour on an unmade bed
And a familiar craving is crawling in his head

And the only sign of life is the ticking of the pen
Introducing characters to memories like old friends
Frantic as a cardiograph scratching out the lines
A fever of confession a catalogue of crime in happy hour
Do you cry in happy hour, do you hide in happy hour,
The pilgrimage to happy hour

 
New shadows tugging at the corner of his eye
Jostling for attention as the sunlight flares
Through a curtains tear, shuffling it's beams
As if in nervous anticipation of another day

Hotel Hobbies by Derek W Dick (Fish)

I'm not quite the tortured writer Torch, of Marillions Clutching At Straws, but I am sitting in a soulless, chain hotel in London trying to find some blogging inspiration. Instead of cocaine I have scotch eggs and my whisky sweat is more likely caused by chocolate milk, but hey we all have our own drugs. Speaking of my particular chosen drugs, I haven't been able to kick my unnecessary gadget buying habit. Yesterday I totally convinced myself I needed a new more whizzy digital camera. So I popped over to my dealer, and queued up with all the other junkies, crumpled Argos order form in one hand, a roll of cash in the other. I've pretty much exhausted this catalogue now, so I will be glad when they "Re-Up" in a few days time.

I'm down here for a two day unison seminar on pay strategy. Must admit the my first thoughts were that discussing pay claims in this recession is akin to discussing umbrella sales figures in the Sahara, but we have to look at the long game. There is a worry that whichever flavour of government  comes next may hammer public sector pay as a blunt tool to curry favour with the Daily Mail et al.

Jenny and the angry inch

Mind you I may struggle to concentrate on the issue as I am currently suffering from PTHD, Post Traumatic Hairdo Disorder. I visited my hairdresser on Saturday and with an inches worth of foolish bravado I told her to take a bit more off than usual. Well I now remember why I have always favoured such a long and thick fringe, both avec and sans wig, and that is to hide my neo Neanderthal forehead. In particular the two lumpy protrusions either side which are like a poor version of Hell Boys horn stumps! To add to the horror I have died my hair black again so my shortened bob style is helmety (this should be a word) and uncannily like Edna from the Incredibles. Well apparently my hair will grow back to normal eventually. Now where did I chuck that old wig!!

Why Hotel Hobbit ? Well I've be trailing round most of Camden with my suitcase and when I got in the bath my feet had a certain Hobbity quality. That, and I adore a bit arbitrary alliteration !