I woke up, this morning, in a strange Mancunian bed.
It wasn’t a talking bed that said words in a strange, Mancunian way, or anything like that, it’s just a bed in a Manchester hotel.
I have pulled out all the stops; this is possibly one of the most expensive hotels I’ve ever stayed in, but I did manage to knock £85 off the list price, through Expedia.
Speaking of discounts, I paid my Oxford parking ticket yesterday. It came to £25 because I paid so quickly.
It doesn’t seem so expensive if you say it very quickly.
And besides, twentyfivequid is absolutely nothing compared to the price of this place.
I have a suite.
See, I said I’d pulled out all the stops.
I’m expecting delivery of my room-service breakfast, as I type this. I’m sitting, in a white fluffy bathrobe the size of Newport, at the desk in the ‘office’, wondering what else I can do for fun.
The ‘media centre’ in the lounge looks like the control panel of an Airbus, but I mastered the off/on/off switches.
Despite having (I’d guess) £25,000 of media technology in there, there was still nothing on the TV last night.
I didn’t do the porn thing, I was too tired last night.
Today will find me at the BBC/ITV/C4 Comedy Writers Conference in Salford.
Looking at the itinerary/agenda, it seems the day will be full of seriousness and lacking laughs.
I’m a little disappointed.
Ah, there’s a knock at the door!
Breakfast has arrived.