A
hotel room is a lonely place. Indeed it is. To the lone traveller.
Interesting (and disgusting too) to clean, though.
If
you're interested, that is, in people's habits, yet disgusted by
cleaning up after them, which can make you feel somewhat superior.
Dirty Beasts! because well, you would think that wouldn't you? if you
were forever changing soiled sheets, picking up debris from the
carpets, mopping up spills, and coming across hairs of all types.
Nobody likes cleaning the bathroom. I don't even like cleaning my
own, and I'm the sole user.
My
favourite task is vacuuming. As a little girl, I was given, I think
by a great-aunt a toy vacuum, which I want to say was a beige colour
and modelling itself as an Electrolux. I don't know if I'm right
about the last detail but I seem to remember a tiny silver emblem
bearing that name. Unless I'm confusing it with my grandparents'
full-grown upright model. Anyhow, it wasn't a Dyson and it certainly
wasn't a Henry. The latter, by the way, I have a great dislike for,
but lots of hotels (God knows why – and maybe he does) swear by
them.
That
same great-aunt also gave me, I believe, a toy stove and washing
machine. I don't believe I'm making this up, but maybe I am? Memory
is a funny thing. But now I think about it I also seem to recall tiny
pieces of silver cutlery, not real silver, mind, just shiny plastic.
I loved all those mini-household appliances, playing with them, but
you do when small, when the adult world is inaccessible.
Until
you get there and realise the labour behind them. I still enjoy
vacuuming though, if it's an upright model and not one that has to be
yanked along on its wheels. Come on Henry, heel. There's a good boy.
Bed-changing,
I don't mind either. There's something quite satisfying about pulling
a dirty sheet off and putting a fresh, crisp one on, though I do, at
times, wish large hotel chains would invest in elasticated sheets.
I'm tired (and bored) of hospital corners. Laundry wouldn't be able
to cope, I suppose, because flat sheets are so much easier to press
and fold.
I
did a couple of days in the pressing room once, for guests' clothes.
It was hot and uncomfortable. And there was a laundered steam smell.
Hard to describe, really, but that type of steam does have a smell.
Nothing overpowering or floral, just, well, clean. The air was as
humid and moist as the hothouse at Kew Gardens, causing my hair to
turn to frizz and my face to melt. The supervisor I had to report to
was creepy. He gave these funny little smirks and I'm sure he had
unsavoury thoughts. About me. It was a relief to get out of there and
return to attending rooms, on my own with my trolley and a smiley
Henry.
Best
of all, I like checking rooms. You could say it's my party piece. I
walk into a serviced room, mine or one of my fellow attendants, and
pretend to be a floor supervisor. I run a finger along skirting
boards and tops of cupboards, examine it and tut. Then I check the
bed is made correctly with the crease down the middle, frowning and
making little adjustments here and there. I count the sugars, milks,
coffees and teas and mutter profusely; I point out smears on mirrors
and shower doors; I wrinkle my nose at toilet seats and inspect the
shampoos and soaps. I make a pantomime of it basically and make
myself and the girls laugh.
Such
moments are rare, though, in this line of work, especially when the
Head Housekeeper, as she is here, is a little like Miss Trunchbull,
you know, the school headmistress in Matilda.
Mind you, I will say this for her, everyone gets treated the same,
even on occasion the guests. But for all that, it's not a bad place.
And
there are perks to this job, although maybe you might not think of
them as such, for instance subsidized meals on duty, tips should any
be left but most guests are tight-fisted these days, lost property if
unclaimed, and discounts off holidays.
I've
checked in, as a resident, to a sister hotel once in my life and
hated the experience. Not the room, the room itself was a bit
old-fashioned for my taste but clean, but being in a city very
different to my own, and alone. Because God, can a hotel room be a
lonely place then.
Picture credit: French Maid, Banksy (source: WikiArt)
This article was penned during 2019.
