I went to London last weekend with my family. It was lovely, we spent the day in Winter Wonderland, had an amazing meal, then caught a show – One Man, Two Guv’nors, which was hilarious, in case you were wondering. Watching an old man repeatedly fall down a flight of stairs is actually much funnier than you might imagine. Anyway, the other highlights of the weekend were a squirrel climbing up my leg in order to half-inch a Skip, and the following conversation with Sara in our hotel room.
“Erm, Manda…” my sister said, looking at me with an expression of horror. “Look at this stain on the duvet, it’s all grey, and then when you move the duvet, it’s actually soaked all the way through to the sheet, and then if you move the sheet, it’s gone through that as well… so they haven’t changed the sheets or the duvet covers or anything – it’s disgusting.”
I looked at the stain. I looked back at Sara. I moved a pillow on top of the ‘stain’, in the hope that she would clock that it was, in fact, just a shadow cast by the atmospheric lighting.
“Oh no,” she said, aghast. “That’s stained too!”