The Arse and his date

    We're not long back from a holiday in Devon. A week of hiking, sightseeing and enjoying fine south-western food. And cider of course.
    Our hotel was a little basic. Not for us the Grand Hotel on the seafront, instead we stayed in an anonymous chain motel next to a trunk road because if you book such rooms far enough ahead they can be yours for a surprisingly small amount of money.
    You know exactly what you are getting at these places. The rooms are the same all over the country, basic but clean and unexpectedly spacious. Perfect for a budget getaway.
    Sadly we had the worst room in the hotel, on the ground floor by the entrance. Woken up at all hours by noisy mobile phone conversations and construction workers enjoying a quick fag before turning in.
    One such moment troubled me. About 1am, and a bloke has returned to the hotel with a woman he's picked up at the pub he's been to. As he catches a pre-coital fag we're treated to their conversation and it becomes rapidly clear that he's a scumbag of the first order. It's not exactly my area of expertise, but perhaps informing your date that she's a slapper who'll open her legs for anyone is not the done thing. Even if there is a ring of truth to it.
    You wish you could freeze time, run out and tell her he's an arse and to walk away. But you can't. After a few minutes of conversation and an unwelcome tobacco smell reaching our room they went inside and we were able to go back to sleep.
    I hope she found what she wanted, but something tells me she didn't find what she needed.