Howde Peeps,
Sofia here with Donald. We have not been around for awhile but we have been following her blogs and thought you must be getting tired of lockdown every week. So, we are taking over and giving you a little more entertainment throughout the rest of the summer.
If you are wondering who we are you may read all about us in Lady M's books which she calls the "Sofia" trilogy. You can see how pretty they look in the pics above. There's more info about us on her website, by scrolling through her blogs, or on the Internet, particularly on a site they call Amazon.
To begin our little adventure with you we have found an amusing short story she wrote based on her and many others experiences.
Enjoy!
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ROOM NUMBER
Some years ago, I went on my jollies to Malta and when I checked into the hotel, they gave me room 636. I said, “If it were 666, I would be the devil’s daughter.” This caused much laughter. For a few days at all mealtimes I would smile and say, “666, The devil’s daughter, 636.” Suddenly, I was feeling devilish. Many would say, true to character!
When asked for the room number I just said, “666.”
This was at a time when pen and pads had been ousted and fantastic new technology had been brought in. I watched the harassed waiter put the numbers in this silly little machine. He looked puzzled. Now, dear readers, that waiter had known me for years and had heard me describe myself as the devil’s daughter many times. I was sure he would realise. He tried again, “Er, it’s not coming up. What number?”
When I’m devilish…I’m devilish!
“666.”
He tried four or five times before I laughed and said, “It’s 636.” Then he realised and laughed.
“I never expected you to put it in.”
“When we had to write the room numbers it was easy to remember them. Now, we just put the number in we’re given without thinking about it. It’s like being in auto-pilot mode.”
I guess that was the beginning of the farewell to the banter between waiters and guests. That was when they first became too busy or preoccupied to consider friendliness and chatter.
Moving forward. Different time. Different place. Technology has advanced. Hostesses and restaurant staff all have iPads which require a room number before revealing individual identity and numerous other details which staff must read as opposed to conversing or even looking at the guest. Guests have become robots. Forget personal, friendly service, care or any interest in guest. Forget remembering little details like room numbers, wine preference or anything relating to regular guests which made them feel welcome, special and at home. Just concentrate on the iPad and think of salary. Technology has replaced humanity. In the good old days when hostesses had a list on paper, or what is now known as hard copy, they would look up, see a person and smile. Then greet person with vocabulary before finding name on list, note and place tick. Next, be happy to escort person to a table while chatting pleasantly. Such wonderful memories of bygone days. Now…
There at the restaurant door stands stone-faced Morticia. Guests approach and join the queue for dinner with some trepidation while wondering whether they’re in a luxury hotel or the supermarket check-out.
At last it’s their turn to face the ordeal with Morticia whose glazed eyes just vaguely note another robot in front of her. “Room Number!” She demands. No one is getting passed her without this information. Once she has this information, she is oblivious to any attempt at verbal communication from robots who are asking to sit in their favourite place in the inner sanctum and enjoy an evening meal. They have been salivating for the last fifteen minutes while patiently queuing and wondering why they have paid a fortune for this torture when it’s free at the local supermarket. Eventually, after digesting all the info on her silly little iPad she shouts, “Follow me.” Then proceeds to place them at a table of her choosing, not theirs. They protest but she acts more like a prison officer than a hostess and they are left sighing as they are seated at a table in the corner and in the dark. She has left them, rushed back to her station ready to face the next robots.
This set me thinking… after all I am a writer. What would happen if the Queen, Prince Philip and their entourage were to find themselves in this situation? I think it would be something like this…
“Room number!” Morticia bawls.
“Room number. What is a room number?” The Queen asks.
“Room number.” Morticia repeats and quickly glares at her before looking back at her precious iPad.
The Queen turns to Philip, “Philip what is a room number?”
“Damned if I know. Isn’t a room something that common people stay in?”
“Just a single room? People stay in just a single room. Really?”
A frustrated and annoyed Morticia shouts even louder, “Room number!”
“I think so. Wouldn’t know.”
“Oh,” She looks at Morticia, “One does not have a room.”
“Oh, you’re non-resident. How are you paying?”
“Paying? One doesn’t pay. One is Queen. One does not carry currency.”
Morticia is getting really annoyed with these stupid robots. “You’re not resident and you’re refusing to pay. Next. Room number.”
The Queen is thoroughly confused. “One is resident but One does not have a room.”
Philip interrupts, “We have a suite.”
Morticia replies, “Ah you have a suite, room number!”
The Queen and Philip look at each other in despair. Do suites have numbers? At this stage, a bodyguard speaks, “Ma’am, the suites have numbers just like the rooms.”
“Really? What is it?”
“Ma’am, the number is on the door and on your check-in info with your key card.”
“What is a key card?”
“Ma’am, it is the card which opens your door and then operates the lights.”
“Oh, that little thing. I left it in the little slot where someone placed it.”
“Room number!”
Robots behind are now forming a long queue and are sighing and looking at their watches and mobile phones.
One of the Queen’s entourage rushes back to her suite and looks at the number. He returns and shouts at Morticia, “432.”
Morticia taps the number into her precious iPad. She tried three times. Nothing was coming up on the screen. Morticia’s brain has frozen until a frazzled robot in the queue shouts, “There’s no such room or suite. There are only three floors. No room has the first digit 4.”
Morticia screams, “Room number!”
The bodyguard was flustered. “Was it 342?”
Morticia’s aching fingers try 342. “Miss Smith? You’re not Miss Smith. No room. Refusing to pay. No food. Next. Room number.”
The bodyguard tried again, “324?”
Morticia taps in 324 and spends ages digesting the information before saying, “Mr and Mrs Windsor?” without even looking up.
The Queen is still puzzled as she is thinking about people staying in a room and magic key cards. “One is Queen.”
Philip looks a little stunned. He had never heard anyone address them as Mr and Mrs Windsor.
“We are the Mountbatten-Windsors but my wife is Queen.”
“Ah, Mountbatten-Windsors, room number!”
“One is Queen.”
“Room number.” Morticia blasts forth.
Philip adds, “We own a castle at Windsor. Dammed awful fire in 1992.”
“1992, Annus horribilis.”
“Grandchildren married there in 2018. Good times.”
“Oh yes, One remembers.”
“Room number.”
“One is Queen.”
“No Queen. Mr and Mrs Windsor or Mountbatten-Windsor? Room number!”
Philip looks around, “Damn this stupidity. Lizzie let’s go and get fish and chips.”
They and their entourage leave.
The next robots move forward.
“Room number!”
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We hope you enjoyed that. Have the best week you can and stay safe. All our love, Sofia and Donald xxxx
