Conference. Day two. The shower hurts.

The shower in the hotel room spurts jets out so hard that if I stand front on it hurts. I am not joking, it’s like a torture instrument, I have to turn down the flow, stand with my back to the jet, and keep moving so the pain is a little distributed. I’m loving this hotel – can you tell? The nipple cripple* shower is very much in keeping with the 1950’s enamel style bath, so short you have to fold in two to get in (I did, last night, it was great), the splodgy carpets that reveal that someone didn’t read the small print that said ‘warning – this carpet spot cleaner may not be colour-safe – please test on sample before applying’, the staff at the breakfast buffet discussing their pay, hourly rate, complaining about the cleaners low rates, the waiter with big grey open eyes and shock hair who tells me about his acting courses and seems to be only 17 yet patiently explains to me how agents have a quota of people of each certain look, to keep their rates of return high, and is Florence Nightingale patient when I dither pre-coffee about whether I want cereal or eggs, and if eggs, done how, with what kind of bread, somehow is all very 1950’s cute, somehow quaint, somehow tacky, somehow ok.
*Australian term, please excuse.