Galaxy Hotel

‘Aaaaiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeee!’

That was the rather alarming sound that was coming from an ugly little boy-child whom Audrey and I passed this morning. He did not want to go to school.

It sounded like someone was killing a pig. Audrey was most dismayed. ‘I’m not surprised he’s ugly,’ I whispered to her. ‘Look at his mother.’

The desperate woman who had lost control of her horrific terrorist infant was no oil painting. There are many women around here who I suspect share full gene sequences, as the longer I stay in this village, the quicker that they are all beginning to resemble one another in their unsightliness. This particular woman’s features were so ghastly that I was surprised she did not fall over. She reminded me somewhat of one of the dwarfs staring out from a Velázquez painting.

I mentioned all of this to Nelson when I rang him a few minutes ago. ‘Kids,’ he said. ‘Horrible things – one bit me once in Piccadilly. Do you remember? You, on the other hand, really like them, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t eat a whole one though.’ I went on: ‘I was wondering if I might invite myself down to stay with you for a week, Nel. I could really do with a break.’

‘Sure. We’ll hit all the bars in Soho and the West End,’ he said, excitedly.

‘Not every night,’ I told him. ‘Maybe just the Friday.’

‘OK, boss,’ he said. ‘Message understood. No drinking on a school night, but the weekend we go crazy.’

‘I really just need a quiet break,’ I told him.

‘My flat isn’t a bloody hotel, you know,’ he complained. Then: ‘Wait a minute. I know you, Nap. You’re planning something, aren’t you?’

‘I might be,’ I said.

Tagged as: Drinking, Kids, London, Nelson Galaxy