Out with radio pals in Birmingham on Friday night (the conversation on a radio night out is beyond anal, positively intestinal, in fact) and stayed at an Etap hotel, which I've not done before.
I'd booked the room online and specifically ticked the box marked 'single'. It was 38 quid, which struck me as good value and simultaneously made it obvious that the room wouldn't include gold bedposts and that a concubine was unlikely to be chucking rose petals at my feet as I swiped the card in the door.
The room was fine, kind of a luxury prison cell, if that has any clarity. It had basic facilities but they were clean and worked, the sort of room you'd expect trusties in prison to get. I did briefly believe they had neglected to give me a lavatory, until I opened the wardrobe and realised it wasn't a wardrobe at all. The brief panic which had ensued had me momentarily contemplating an iron bucket, at its unflushable worst, given the institutionalised 'feel' of the room.
Also, despite this apparently being a 'single' room, there was sleeping room for three people. The bed was a double and there was also a bunk above it. I appreciate that some people may use hotel rooms as a base for activity which may prove indiscreet if carried out on the pavement, but even so this was being rather presumptious of all single room users.
Etap are clearly progressive and liberated - a single room to them comes complete with bed space for two more just in case you happen to find two potential playmates while buying your newspaper.
I slept in the double bed. Alone. Right down the middle. And, naturally, inebriated.