A few years ago I was staying in a
hotel on the promenade at Eastbourne on the south coast. I’d never been before
and always thought Eastbourne was God’s Waiting Room where retired people lived.
I was gladly wrong. I didn’t know the Ardmore Language Schools were there and
they invited thousands of young people into the area. I’d go walking out each
night and found the place was abuzz with young life.
One morning I set
out to walk on the promenade when the battery in my mp3 expired. I thought I
would nip back to the hotel for a battery. The maids were cleaning the rooms
and doors were open. Perhaps there had been some thefts as they parked their
trolleys across the doorways. The door to my room was open. Inside I saw maid
slightly bent over the diary I’d left on the dressing table. I had left it
under a novel I was reading so she must have slid it out. Her knees were
slightly bent as she read it - I don’t think anything I’d written was that
exciting. Perhaps she was reading about a typical thought: nude midgets smothered
in damson jam doing cartwheels on a carpet of bubble wrap.
My diaries are
mostly dull observations but are sometimes confessional. Once the Inland Revenue
looked into my affairs and I had to submit a lengthy list explaining every transaction
through two bank accounts. I had to explain a £1,000 arriving into an account was
a chum paying back a loan. The only way I could justify it was to photocopy a
couple of pages from my slightly-confessional diaries where the money was
mentioned.
So here is a
painting showing the lady bent over the diary. I’ve tried to show her legs
slightly bent as she stooped her torso over. Also I’ve tried to show the kind
of tiny, tired, cluttered hotel rooms I usual stay in. The furniture rarely
matches, there’s too much of it and there are enough drawers to hide £1 million
in used notes.
What did I do
when I caught the maid reading my notebook? Being a typical Englishman who
backs away from confrontation I went to buy a battery at a local shop. Complete
spineless coward. I don’t blame her for having a quick look at the diary; I’m
suspicious of people who aren’t curious.