I've written before about what a circular thing life is and I had
that feeling again yesterday.
Standing looking up at the Kensington Close Hotel, a large
nondescript grey brick building just off Kensington High Street, I was
immediately transported back 28 years to that exact spot.
It was warm, barmy night 28 years ago, too. I was working for Midland Bank at the time
and I had been sent to London. I had to attend an assessment centre to see if I was suitable
material for the new Management Development Programme.
I should have gone to an assessment centre closer to home but
missed out, so it was down to the Smoke with a bunch of other hopefuls who
couldn't get to their own regional events.
The travel department of dear old Midland Bank sent me a hotel
voucher for the Kensington Close Hotel; so there I was, barely 18 years old,
staying in London for the first time, wondering if the receptionist would
actually accept my scrappy piece of paper.
Well, they did... I had a room and everything.
It was a hot night so I thought I'd have a bath before getting
something to eat. I had the TV on too...
it was a World Cup game from Mexico '86.
When it came time to get out of the bath I stepped on a
slippery patch. My foot went from under
me and I sliced the back of my ankle on a sharp edge at the bottom of the
bath panel. It wasn't a bad cut and it
didn't hurt when I did it... but I just couldn't stop it bleeding.
I soaked a couple of towels and left bloody footprints across the bathroom floor and on the carpet in the bedroom
Eventually I packed the cut with toilet paper and went out. I had my first Big Mac on that day, too.
Back in the hotel I peeled off the toilet paper only to find the
cut was still bleeding. Unperturbed I
went to bed (having had a couple of drinks, now that I was 18 years old).
And woke up in a scene from a horror movie.
The sheet on my bed was soaked with blood - I must have tossed
and turned in the night - and there was blood all over the bathroom towels,
too, as well as on the carpets and across the bathroom floor. Heaven knows what the cleaner would have made
of the room.
Anyway, I did the only thing I could think of: I checked out
without saying anything, hoping beyond hope the hotel wouldn't call my employer
to tell them what an awful chap I was.
And now, 28 years later, here I am again, looking up at that same
building. It hasn't changed from the
outside; the sounds, sights and smells are all just as I remember them from 28
years ago.
I even have a pang, wondering whether my name has pinged on their
booking system: 'Lambert - charge him for the bloody sheets he ruined last time
he was here!'
