Creature Comforts

Do you know what? I'm sorry to report this, but I think I'm about ready to leave The Pink House.

There's nothing wrong with it. Nothing. It's just that recently I've found myself yearning for creature comforts. Don't get me wrong, I understand this is a hostel. Furthermore, I, myself, have been critical of those who misunderstand this.

A month back we had a group of Polish Pensioners who repeatedly barracked reception because their bedsheets hadn't been turned over and because they had no phone on which to call room service. There's an "S' in hostel. Otherwise it would be a hotel. And because there's an "S" in it, and because it's only costing about 8 quid a night, you expect less and you muck in with everyone else.

However, alas, after a while it does becomes a bit like being on an extended camping holiday. And no one wants to be on a camping holiday for 3 months. My bed sheets are fridge cold, my socks always seem to be damp and I haven't had one night where I've slept right through without being woken up by someone falling over a rucksack in the dark or letting the door slam.

Case in point. This morning I needed a poo. Regular as clockwork. I kept it in the docking bay for as long as possible, but eventually relented and made my way upstairs to the toilets. When I arrived I discovered, as usual, no toilet paper.

A second later Raj arrived and, peering into the three cubicles and dispensing with his Nepalese/Indian heritage in favour of a Wimbledon/Cockernee accent, uttered: "Vere's no fackin' bog roll". At this point with a full bowel and a turtle's head I began to examine my options. Luckily I knew of the mythical "Secret Toilet" - a Narnia-like WC in the back courtyard.

I had reassured Raj that I would return momentarily with a secret stash of paper, but on arrival realised I actually needed to open my bomb bay doors immediately. Five minutes later after the activity had reached its natural conclusion, I realised that Raj was probably still waiting and so grabbed the paper and raced round to find him at the top of the stairs, hopping from one foot to another.

"Christ!" he said "There you are". I hurled the bog roll up the stairs, unfurling it like a magnolia comet with a long Andrex contrail. He caught it expertly with one hand and darted from view dragging the zig-zagging paper up the stairs behind him like Lady Diana's wedding train.

So, with heavy heart I now freely admit I am looking for comfort. I am looking for a good night's sleep. I am looking for a hot shower and clean duvet under which I can watch my own TV.

The Pink House has been great. I've met some smashing people and had one or two interesting "adventures". But, alas, once I have a job it will goodbye wooden picnic tables and lukewarm showers and hello double bed and dishwasher.