An open letter to the lady occupying Room 507 on Saturday evening.

Dear Madam,

It was an excellent hotel, wasn’t it? No weasily pretending-to-be-concerned-about-the-environment ‘can we get away with not washing your towels’ notices. Nice bath things. Proper toilet roll, with the ends turned up into a little triangle.

For that money, you’d have expected all that.

A little soundproofing, however, wouldn’t have gone amiss.

When I first heard you, I thought I was imagining things. I was sitting on the toilet you see – my mind was elsewhere. The hum of the air conditioning was constant. But there you were again. Unmistakable.

I finished my business, and flushed. And then, I am ashamed to say, I switched the air conditioning off. I don’t know why. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

I can’t possibly describe the noise. I’ve tried every combination of vowels and aitches. Somewhere between ‘Ohhhh!!!!’ and ‘Eeeaaaahhh!!!!’ would be most accurate. Not loud, and muffled, but clearly screamed, belted, hollered. And so regular! Clockwork. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Ohhhh!!!! Eeeaaaahhh!!!! Ohhhh!!!! Eeeaaaahhh!!!!

The thing is – I really don’t want to be immature about this. We’re all adults here. But… but… it just drew me in. Once there, it was impossible not to listen. Impossible. Eeeaaaahhh!!!! Ohhhh!!!! The sheer joyous enthusiasm was a breath of fresh air in a cynical and indifferent world.

Two things I did not expect.

The first was the LTLP’s reaction.

“Christ – she’s not still going, is she?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they were at it when I arrived back from the shops.”

The LTLP had arrived back more than an hour previously. I had clearly had the TV on too high.

The second was when I walked out from our room to make my way to the bar. Whilst the party walls were providing a fair sound barrier between us, clearly the bedroom doors were performing no such function. Indeed, they seemed to be acting as an acoustic sounding board. Screams of hard-driven pleasure echoed round and along the corridor. Creaks. Thrusts. We hurried past.

Everybody looked up at us as we walked into the bar. I felt their eyes examining us. Wondering.

I located my friend Fred.

“Did you hear…?” we both exclaimed, simultaneously.

I write this not to embarrass you. I just – I just feel that we shared a moment. I wonder who you are, and what your story is. I hope that you enjoyed your trip to London, and always remember that evening with a smile and perhaps a little secret flush of enjoyment. If you are reading this, perhaps after searching Google for ‘attractive Norfolk blogger in London hotel bar’ or ‘name of bloke I shared room 507 with’ then I’d like to wish you all the very, very best.

Much later, I walked back to the room. I passed the two empty champagne bottles that you’d left outside for collection. You were silent and, I hope, at peace and satisfied.

To your wonderful future memories.

Your unknown friend,



An open letter to the gentleman occupying Room 507 on Saturday evening.

Dear Sir,